Managing the Maitlands (temporary title change for TYCB)
by whouffle-oneshoterature
Summary: A fluffy fic series about the Doctor and Clara, and their relationship as perceived by the Maitlands. The odd bit of action and suspense, but mostly a lot of lovely whouffle drabble. We have it all: baking souffles, Angie & Artie setting 'em up, Eleven teaching Clara to dance, and some kissing in later chapters. Designed to help you survive the whouffle hiatus. T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 1**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

After Ice Warrior, they take to parking the TARDIS around the corner - Clara figures it might tip the Maitland's off if a big, blue box suddenly appeared out of thin air in their garden.

Today, however, they'd been to the '98 (as in 3098) Olympics for the Genetically Altered and Modified. The crowds had been quite something - being so small, Clara had been shoved around by the hordes of supporters, and twisted her ankle when knocked over by a burly Eurkranian Doshfrikshobble.

The Doctor had insisted they park closer to the house this time, so she didn't have to walk so far, which was silly, really, Clara thought.

"It's fine, look, we're behind a hedge. They won't see us. And isn't it a lovely hedge! With unusually good photosynthesis capabilities," the Doctor rattles.

Clara rolls her eyes. "Yes. Stop admiring your handiwork, I know you did something to it the first day we met."

The Doctor looks a tad put-out. "But my point is that I did something to it, and it STILL WORKS a couple of weeks later."

Clara laughs. "Bye, Doctor," she says, smiling.  
"No, I'll walk you back to the house, you're hurt," he tells her, but almost as more of a question than a statement.  
Clara shakes her head, however. "It's only ten feet, Doctor, I can manage. See you on Wednesday - the one in two days' time, not in a month or three weeks ago. Got it?"

"Most absolutely definitely," the Doctor replies confidently, giving his Clara a hug and kiss on the forehead before she smiles at him and turns, walking back to the house, waving over her shoulder at him.

The Doctor's really very glad he can just hop to Wednesday - he doesn't think he can wait two actual days to see her again. _His _Clara.

When Clara opens the door to the Maitland House, Angie and Artie are there waiting there, gazing at her expectantly.

"Hello," Artie says happily as she gives him a hug.

"Who was that?" Angie asks, pointing out the window to where the Doctor had been just moments before, a very suspicious smirk on her face.  
_Damn. _Clara had been hoping not to have to deal with questions about the Doctor, possibly ever. She's only known him a bit over a month, though he has very quickly become one of the most important things in her life, though she doesn't like the idea of acquainting him with the Maitlands, the other important part. His world is dangerous, and she loves _it_. But her job is to keep the kids safe, because she loves _them. _

"Who was who?" Clara responds carefully, raising her eyebrows as if she really has no idea what they're talking about.

"That guy you were just with," Angie replies, her voice heavy with implications and her smirk growing.

"Oh," Clara says, acting as though she has only just understood who Angie meant. "That's just a friend of mine," she tells her noncommittally.

"Your friends don't normally come to our house," Artie points out innocently, clearly not onboard the same thought-train as his teenage sister.

Clara shrugs. "He was just taking me home."

Angie looks more and more interested by the second. "From where?"

Clara smiles, pats Artie on the head and manoeuvres her way through the ambush if curious children, heading upstairs. "Out," she tells Angie.

As soon as their nanny is gone, Artie asks his sister, "We've met some of Clara's friends before, and they don't normally kiss her on the forehead, do they?"

Angie grins widely. "No, they don't."

"So what's different about him, then?" her brother continues, clearly completely missing the path down which Angie's mind was going.

"Well," she says, mildly frustrated at Artie's lack of comprehension, "he's tall, handsome... I'd say he's Clara's boyfriend. Or wants to be."

Artie's eyes widen.

Angie laughs at him. "Don't look so shocked, she's 24."

"But..." Artie mutters. Then he frowns at Angie like he thinks she's trying to trick him.

The doorbell rings.

"I'll get it!" Artie shouts from down the hall.

In the kitchen, Clara checks her watch. It's 8:00am, but today is only Tuesday, a mere day since she last saw the doctor (though it already feels like too long). There's a distinct possibility he and the TARDIS could have undershot by a day, however, she supposes.

She listens for a few moments, but doesn't hear anything, Doctor-ish or otherwise. So she goes back to baking her soufflé, assuming it was a mail package or something.

"Artie!" Clara calls ten minutes later, "I've got another 'Amelia Williams' book for you from the library!"

She gets no response, however, and frowns. Normally Artie would be thundering down the stairs in order to grab the novel from her hands.

An inkling of worry flashes through Clara's mind. Come to think of it, she hasn't seen or heard Artie since he answered the door.

"Angie?" she calls up the stairs.

"What now, Clara, I'm talking to Nina!" the teen shouts back. _So that was where the phone had go to, _Clara thought.

"Have you seen Artie?"

"I can hear him laughing outside, he's probably playing with his footy ball or something," Angie tells her, not making an appearance from behind her closed bedroom door.

Curiously, Clara heads for the front door. Normally, Artie didn't play by himself - perhaps the knock at the door had been the children's father coming back for something? This was unlikely, however - even if he had, George wouldn't have time to stay and play kick-a-rounds.

Placing the Amelia Williams book, _The Lonely Keeper_ (about an immortal Roman centurion who guarded an 'impossible secret long after rest of his kind were gone') on the counter, Clara ventures out into the small yard.

Angie is right - Artie _is_ out there, playing with his football, but he is by no means alone. The person he passes the ball to flails about enough to take up the same space as three normal people.

Clara is half caught between smiling at the easy way Artie and the Doctor seem to be getting along (which doesn't surprise her, as they're both children, really) or to be slightly nervous at the fact that one of her charges has now clearly met her friend, which will almost definitely lead to more questions.

She stands there quietly in the doorway for a moment, with neither of the two boys noticing her. Clara smirks as the Doctor continually misses the ball, getting distracted by things such as oddly shaped clouds and uncoordinated pigeons. She wonders if all Timelords are this ADHD. When he focuses on the football though, he really is very good.

After about three minutes, Clara coughs gently, causing the Doctor to jump and miss the ball again, which in turn, like a chain reaction, causes Clara to laugh.

"Clara," he says happily, flashing her one of his trademark grins which Clara cannot help but instinctively return.

"You undershot, Chin, you're early by a day," she tells him, her eyebrows arching sternly so that just for a moment, he withers, actually believing her to be cross with him rather than quietly glad.

"Sorry," the Doctor mutters hurriedly. "I can go back and try again, the TARDIS has been acting all funny since you started calling her a 'Snogbox' -"

Clara cuts him off right there, placing a finger carefully on his lips, but looking at Artie. The kid hasn't been following the conversation very well (unsurprisingly, with the Doctor talking all timey wimey) but his eyes widen at the word 'snog', clearly something he understands.

Fearing he may have drastically misinterpreted the Doctor's comment, Clara quickly runs a series of explanations through her head: that her friend's car is called the 'Snogbox', though this might lead to more questions... Possibly that 'SNOG' is an acronym for 'Super-New Organic and Green' - they could pretend the Doctor owned a Smart-car. Though then Artie would probably want to see it, he did have the typical young-boy love of automobiles, dammit...

She is saved from explaining the TARDIS's nickname by the sudden smell of burning that fills the air.

"My soufflé!" Clara curses, turning and dashing back inside, the Doctor and Artie following behind her.

In the kitchen, Smoke issues in clouds from the oven, the pastry inside a blackened mess.

"This was definitely not my fault," Clara exclaims angrily, coughing as the swathes of black smoke attempt to smother her. "I only left it alone for ten minutes, _stupid soufflé,_"  
Not wanting to see Clara choke on the smoke, the Doctor dashes in front of her and rescues the oven himself, grabbing the china bowl the pastry bakes in with a hand protected from the heat by his ridiculously adorable purple jacket.  
When he pulls open the oven door, another smell suspiciously like a burning fuse permeates the air. The Doctor sets the charred wreck of a soufflé on the kitchen counter, before turning to Clara.  
"Your oven may or _may not _be completely and utterly broken," he informs her, "but as someone with the experience of the thirty-two cooking and kitchen maintenance classes up his sleeve that he took to work out how to use the TARDIS bakery, I'd say it's a little bit… well, _broken,_" he finishes lamely, beginning to reach inside his jacket. Clara knows he is about to grab his Sonic, so she quickly reaches out and grabs his wrist.  
"Uh-uh, Doctor," she mutters quietly.  
After half a second, it clicks in the Doctor's brain that she doesn't want Artie to see something as boldly alien-cross-James-Bond as his screwdriver.  
"Real, proper, boring fixing, then, huh?" he asks sadly, his head hanging just a bit, having simply assumed that she will want him to get the oven working again. She actually wouldn't have asked, it would seem a little _domestic_ of him, but since he's already thought of it…  
Clara nods. "Real, proper, boring fixing," she confirms.  
The Doctor is put out only for a moment, however – he soon twirls about to face Artie. "Ok, kid, do you know where your dad keeps his tools?"  
Artie nods enthusiastically, keen to help. He grabs the Doctor by the hand and drags him away, taking him to the small shed at the back of the garden.  
When they are gone, Clara opens the windows to allow the smoke to dissipate. She leans against the bench, biting her thumbnail as she waits for the boys to return.  
After a minute, Angie comes clumping down the stairs, holding her laptop in one hand and typing with the other.  
"Hey, Clara," she says, "do you know the difference between a colonisation and a settlement? Only I'm trying to work out which one's best to use for my assignment on Australia,"  
"They're synonyms, really," the Doctor replies, entering with Artie and a toolbox, "though there are several differences if you want to get nit-picky. But this is only 2013, so it's not politically incorrect to use 'settlement' yet, though in a few years…"  
"Thanks," Angie mutters, having tuned out after 'synonyms'. It takes her several seconds, but eventually she realises it wasn't Clara who spoke.  
Angie looks up from her laptop screen, taking in the scene below her – the Doctor standing quite close to Clara, really - much, much closer than the space deems necessary, and then hand resting gently on her shoulder probably isn't required either; Artie, happily holding a tool box in one hand and a footy ball in the other.  
"Oh," she says, a smirk jumping onto her face despite the warning look in Clara's eyes. "Hi."  
The Doctor waves back at her a bit. "Hello," he replies. "You must be Angie. I'm the Doctor. Clara's told me all about you and your brother," he tells her, smiling. "Are you doing homework?"  
Angie nods, jumping quickly down the last few stairs. "Why are you called the Doctor? Don't you have a name?"  
"Angie-" Clara begins, but the Doctor cuts her off.  
"No, it's fine. I do have a name, actually, but it's a very boring one – _John Smith. _Ever so dull. Everyone just calls me the Doctor, for as long as I can remember – it's one of those nicknames you don't _quite _know how you got, you just… have it. I suppose it's because I like fixing things," he explains.  
_Perhaps you've put Clara's heart on your list, _Angie thinks to herself. If he really _is _Clara's boyfriend, she could have some proper fun teasing her nanny about him.  
Angie puts her computer down gently on the kitchen table. The Doctor's eyes dance over to the Word document that's open.  
"Erm… when's this due?" he asks Angie.  
"Today," she replies casually.  
He looks over it some more. "Australia was settled in the seventeen hundreds, not the eighteen hundreds; the Dutch got there first, not after; it was _Christopher _Columbus who discovered it, not _William _– I have no idea where you got that from…" the Doctor rattles off, combing quickly through Angie's work and correcting her errors as he goes.  
Clara watches the Doctor's face intently, and she can see he is _this close _to recommending they all go back and see Australia settled in the first place.  
"Doctor, one second," she says carefully, taking his hand and pulling him off to the side, just out of earshot of the kids, who watch them intently. "Angie, do your work," Clara instructs quickly.  
"Nope," the girl replies, too interested in observing the dynamic between her babysitter and this new guy to bother with her assignment.  
When the two in question get further down the hall, however, Artie tugs at Angie's sleeve, insisting in a whisper, "He so is not Clara's boyfriend."  
Angie raises her eyebrows at him. "What makes you think that?"  
"She hasn't kissed him," Artie says confidently, as if this is concrete proof.  
"That's because we're here, stupid," his sister rolls her eyes. "But have you seen the way they look at each other? Just like mum and dad used to."  
Artie nods a little. "Yes, but still… Clara can't have a boyfriend."  
"Why not?"  
"Um… because she's our Clara. Not his."  
Angie rolls her eyes again. "Well, he played footy with you, is presumably about to fix the oven and is trying to help me with my homework. If he's not already Clara's boyfriend, you can see he'd certainly _like _to be."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 2**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

"Ok, Doctor," Clara says as soon as the kids are a reasonable distance away and she's dragged the Doctor out of their sight. "Listen. We _can't _even let the Maitland kids_ guess _there's something funny going on."  
"_Is _there something funny going on?" he asks curiously.  
"Yes, you time travel, that's funny. But if they find out about it, they'll want to come along. And-"  
"That's bad," the Doctor finishes for her, nodding seriously. "Not safe for small people."  
She raises her eyebrows at him. "Yes, not even people your size small," he tells her.  
"Ok, well… please just try and seem reasonable normal. I'm not saying act, because I've seen you do that before and while I know you're very good, I don't want you do that. Just… no timey wimey talk, alright? No Sonic, and no TARDIS talk, ok? But otherwise just be… you. You're exactly fine like that."  
He nods. "Gotcha. Oh, and by the way, once the kids are at school – this _is _Wednesday, right, so they will be at school?"  
"It's a Tuesday, but never mind, go on," Clara laughs.  
"Well, I've heard about a _ghost, _in 1974. Too good to miss. Very interesting, ghosts. More interesting than most things," the Doctor says excitedly, his childish side making a grand, smiley reappearance.  
"Oh? And why is that then?" Clara asks, quirking an eyebrow.  
"Because a ghost… a ghost is never really a ghost, well, not in the human sense of a lost one's echo… They're always something more…"  
Clara can't help but hug him at how genuinely happy he looks, though unfortunately, Angie chooses that exact moment to walk in.  
"Oh, sorry," she says, though she's smirking, which does not _really _add credit to her apology. "It's just… the oven's smoking again… even though the soufflé is out… never mind,"  
She turns to leave, but Clara and the Doctor break apart and follow her anyway.  
The oven is indeed releasing a rather large amount of thick black smoke, off its own accord – this is definitely not the burning soufflé.  
"Right, time to make a start on the normal, boring fixing," the Doctor says, almost excitedly, as Artie passes him the tool kit, looking eager, while both Clara and Angie seem mildly apprehensive.  
"Um, Clara," Angie says, as the two boys start poking tools around the oven.  
"Eh?" Clara responds, not taking her eyes off the Doctor. While she has no doubt he has the skills to mend if not drastically improve the Maitland's oven, there is an almost equal chance he will totally destroy it. But then, she supposes, it's already pretty busted up anyway.  
"It's 8:30. I should probably get to school… Can you drive me?" Angie asks. Clara hesitates for a moment, not sure if Artie will be fine with being left with someone who is practically a stranger.  
"I'll be fine, Clara," he tells her, nodding vigorously when she asks, "I want to watch the Doctor fix the oven, and my schools is just down the road a bit – I don't have to leave for another half an hour or so."  
Somewhat reluctantly, Clara concedes to his point. It's not as if the Doctor will let any harm come to Artie, but she is mildly unsure as to the intelligence of the idea of leaving two unattended children in the house.  
"Come on, Clara!" Angie calls as she heads out the front door, leaving her nanny with no choice but to smile at the two boys and follow her teenage charge outside.

Almost as soon as Clara has clicked on her seatbelt and backed out onto the street, Angie begins talking.  
"_Is _he your boyfriend, though, Clara?" she asks, attempting innocent, but just coming across as evilness-in-waiting.  
Clara can immediately tell that no matter what answer she gives, Angie will construe it to meet with her own interpretation of her and the Doctor's relationship, but it's worth a shot. "No," she replies finally.  
"Really? How come he was at our house then?" Angie says, eyebrows climbing.  
"Adults don't have to be dating other adults in order to go over to their houses, you know," Clara tells her, almost smirking now. "He was only picking me up."  
"To go where?"  
"Out," Clara says again, refraining from adding, _to the 1970's to see a ghost…_  
"_Out _isn't a place, Clara! You went _out _yesterday too. Where exactly is _out_?" Angie asks suspiciously.  
"Places, Angie." To divert the teen's attention, Clara starts listing locations she and the Doctor have been, though slightly altered to fit within Angie's idea of reality: no aliens. "Ice skating," – on the Common Federation Planetary Luxury Station – "to a concert," – sung by the oppressed god-worshipers of Akhaten – "a Water World," – in 1983 on a submarine, but Clara knew if she even said something like _Nautical Museum _Angie wouldn't believe her: Clara wasn't big on boats and so forth – "we've been to a couple of movies," – that won't be made for another eighty years – "just stuff like that."  
"Those _sound _like dates to me," Angie points out.  
"You seem to have been in a perpetual state of smirking recently," Clara observes, but Angie ignores her.  
"Back to my first point, though – if he's not your boyfriend, why was he at our house?"  
Clara frowns. "I already told you. People can go to other people's houses when they want to. There are not really _rules_ about it. Unless you're breaking and entering. There are rules about that. I've had friends over before."  
"Not _normally. _You told me ages ago when I asked that you didn't feel comfortable having people over, because it's not your house, its dads, even though you live here."  
"Yes, but we're not going to spend the day at the house, that would be boring. He just showed up a bit early, that's all – he wasn't supposed to show up until after you and Artie were gone," – and _tomorrow _– "I don't stay at home all day when you kids go to school, you know," Clara tells her.  
This idea hadn't really occurred to Angie, and then she remembers why. "You _used _to stay at home nearly all the time," she reminds her nanny.  
"Not anymore," Clara says, pulling over. "Ok, out. We're here,"  
Angie doesn't want to go to school – she'd much rather stay here and interrogate Clara until she caves in and finally admits to what even Artie (the obtuse, silly, ten-year-old _boy_ Artie) is starting to be able to see.  
Nevertheless, she gets out of the car and walks over to her friend Nina who is waiting at the gate for her. Angie waves at Clara as the car speeds away. She smirks – Clara is very keen to get back to the house, it seems.  
"What took you so long?" Nina asks her.  
"Oh, nothing. Clara's boyfriend was just helping me with my assignment."  
"Clara has a _boyfriend_?" Nina says, looking surprised.  
"My god, you're as bad as Artie."  
"No, no, I mean, it's not funny at all… It's just – I'd never really thought about your nanny going out with someone," her friend clarifies.  
"Yeah, neither had I," Angie replies. "But if they're not together yet, they very soon will be."  
And even Nina can't tell if that's just foresight or a plan on Angie's part.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 3**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

**A/N: I have been writing this fic on Tumblr (also as whouffle-oneshoterature) for about 13 days now, so I actually have 11 chapters already written. I'm adding them to here on request, so basically everyone who has followed is about to get spammed with updates. My apologies, but it won't happen again. Promise. Swear on my OTP (whouffle, obviously).**

Artie checks his watch. The Doctor's head has been inside the oven for nearly ten minutes now, along with his hand, which is poking around with a spanner, screwdriver (which he had frowned at and called boring when Artie had given in to him) and a torch.  
A little while ago, Artie had started to get bored, so the Doctor had been making up space-alien stories to tell him. They featured the Doctor doing a lot of talking and running around, and sometimes Clara was in them too. They were mostly funny and a little bit silly and wondrous.  
"Can you make up some scary ones?" Artie asks what he can see of the Doctor that's not blocked by the stove.  
"Sure. 'Course I can. But you're not going to tell on me to Clara if you get nightmares, are you?" he replies, his voice slightly echo-y from being inside a tin box.  
Artie smiles. "Absolutely not. Besides, I'm ten now, I don't get nightmares. Nightmares are for babies."  
"Oi," the Doctor tells him. "Nightmares get to everyone. I still get them, all the time. There's nothing 'baby' about them, Artie. Bad dreams are just your mind's way of dealing with nasty memories."  
Artie decides he likes the Doctor (he's still not sure if the man is Clara's boyfriend or not – Angie might have being trying to trick him, but it doesn't seem like it anymore), and stops trying to impress him. "Ok," he says. "I still have nightmares. But only _sometimes. _And I promise I won't get them from your space-alien made-up stories."  
"Yes, that's right," the Doctor agrees. "They are most absolutely definitely completely made-up."  
Artie listens intently as the Doctor tells him of a strange, alien place called 'Akhaten', and an adventure he pretends he and Clara had there. It's funny, but the way that the Doctor tells it makes it sound as if Clara is the best and most perfect person to have travel with you. Artie has to stop him, though, when the Doctor starts one about them being stuck in a submarine, back in time.  
"Don't do that one, it's not right," he tells the Doctor. "Clara doesn't like tight spaces and most definitely not ones 700 feet underwater. Don't make Clara go there, please?"  
"She's claustrophobic?" the Doctor says. "I didn't know that." He mentally notes it down. To try not to take Clara anywhere that might make her feel constricted. Ever. Not his Clara – she has to feel safe, as much as she can wherever they go, or she might leave him. And he doesn't ever, ever want that.  
"I don't know what that word means, but it's probably 'afraid of tight spaces'… how come you didn't know? I thought you had to know everything about her to be her boyfri-"  
He's cut off but the sound of keys clinking in the door as Clara returns.  
The Doctor jumps at the noise, banging his head on the inside of the oven.  
"Ow," he mutters, as Clara walks in.  
"You ok?" she asks him in an amused tone.  
"Sort of," the Doctor says. "On the upside, I have located the problem with your oven. On the downside, I found it my knocking my head into it, and now it's leaking some rather nasty smelling black… _stuff _onto my bowtie, which is not cool."  
Clara smiles, grabs his hand, and pulls him out of the oven. His normally buoyant quiff of dark brown hair looks slightly sad and subdued as it is oppressed by the copious quantities of dark grease. She rolls her eyes.  
"The bathroom is upstairs," she tells him, as he tastes some of the grease of his finger and shivers in disgust. "Go wash it off quickly, I've got to take Artie to school in a few minutes. C'mon, Doctor, I'll show you the sink."  
As she drags the quietly complaining Doctor up the narrow staircase, Artie is left standing in the kitchen alone, still smiling at how funny the Doctor looked, all covered in oven fuel.  
He waits patiently for Clara, glancing around the kitchen, and notices a small silver key on the floor. It's oddly pretty, so he picks it up and slips it into his pocket. It's probably from his dad's keychain. He'll have to remember to give it back to his father when he gets home this afternoon.  
After five minutes, Clara and the Doctor come back downstairs, her looking amused, him looking disgruntled.  
He is tugging in annoyance at the close fitting white man's shirt that he is now wearing over the top of his suit pants, in place of his regular button up shirt and tails. Artie recognises it as the shirt his dad had given Clara to use as a smock when she helped Artie paint (not that he liked painting anymore: while he enjoyed the messiness factor, the actual _cleaning up _cancelled it out) so that she didn't have to get any of her own clothes dirty - when Artie was into painting, he _had _flicked paint around _quite a lot_. This had been only a few weeks after their mother had died, when it hadn't mattered to Artie what he did so long as it wasn't crying. Or missing mum. The shirt had a splash of dark blue paint on the left shoulder, but was otherwise clean.  
"It's not _cool_," he hears the Doctor grumble.  
"It's fine, Doctor," Clara tells him.  
"No, it's not, it's too modern… and white… and sticky-clingy. That's not good."  
"It's fine," she repeats, her stern face almost flicking on. Artie feels he should warn the Doctor about Clara's stern face, though he probably already knows seeing as he's Clara's boyfri-  
Clara interrupts his chain of thought with, "Are you ready to go?"  
Artie nods happily. "Yeah," he tells her, picking up his school bag and slinging it over his shoulder.  
"Ok, Doctor, I'll be back in twenty minutes," Clara tells 'John Smith'.  
"Oh, no, I'd like to come," he replies. "Besides," he whispers to Artie, "I don't think your oven likes me. Probably best not be left alone with it."  
Artie laughs, but Clara frowns. "Are you sure, Doctor? It'll be just walking, nothing interesting."  
"Oh, yes, I'm sure. I can even get a real shirt on if you let me go back to the-"  
"How bout no?" Clara finishes for him. It takes him a second, but eventually the Doctor works out that even Artie might find it a tad suspicious if he disappears for a second and returns with brand new (if not identical) clothes from no apparent source.  
"Well, anyway, I'm fine with walking. It's like running, but less interesting," he says.  
In five minutes, they've locked up the house and are walking down the footpath in the direction of Artie's primary school.  
It feels oddly domestic, thinks Clara, with Artie chattering away between them as they pace along. Very unlike some of her outings with the Doctor – today, there is nothing chasing them, or trying to harm them. Normally, in situations like this, she's noticed (ones where no aliens are hunting them or they're trying to stop aliens _from_ being hunted) that the Doctor will glance around rather a lot, as if eagerly waiting for some issue to develop. Not today, however, which is unusual. Today, he seems content to talk to Artie about interesting features of trains and airplanes, and of how _that particular _type of butterfly lands on specific flowers to signal danger, or how that bee's flying pattern can tell a story. Artie seems to love listening to him talk as the Doctor loves talking.

After ten minutes, they reach his Primary School, and walk him up to the gate.  
"Have a good day, Artie," Clara tells him, giving him a hug before waving him off to the school gate.  
"Bye, Clara!" he calls over his shoulder happily. "Bye, Clara's b -"  
"Artie!" one of his friends calls at him, interrupting his farewell as the other boy throws him a football. "Artie!"  
So Artie just waves and watches Clara and the Doctor as they start to walk away. "Who's that with your nanny?" his friend, Mike, asks. "I haven't seen him before. Is he your cousin?"  
"No," Artie tells him. "That's Clara's boyfriend, Angie says."  
"She's probably tricking you," Mike reasons. "That sort of thing's silly."  
"I don't think Angie's lying. I've heard Clara talking about him a bit before, but she only called him 'her friend'. I thought he was going to leave when the oven broken, and then again when I had to come to school, but he just keeps waiting around like the Centurion in the Amelia William's book I'm re-reading. Oh, and guess what?"  
"What?" Mike asks, more interested now the centurion guard of the mysterious 'Pandorica Prison' had been mentioned. He wanted to be a centurion when he grew up, he'd decided.  
"Her boyfriend helped me practice footy and re-inflated my tball for me, so now we can play a match at lunch!" Artie tells him triumphantly.

Clara and the Doctor walk calmly away from the school until they round the corner, when the Doctor grabs her hand and pulls her into a run.  
Clara thinks how fun it is to have to wind blow through her hair as she anticipates another adventure… in 1974… with a 'ghost that isn't a ghost'…  
The Doctor thinks about how small and warm Clara's hand is in his own, and how he can't wait to take her to see amazing things in all of time and space, and watch her face light up in awe of everything with that smile that he loves…  
After a few minutes, they reach the small alcove where he parked the TARDIS. "I think I'm always going to leave her here, from now on," the Doctor tells her, reaching into his pocket for the key. "It's a nice, shady place that's out of sight from the Maitland's, but not too far… Yes, indeed, it is as almost as if this spot were made for the old girl."  
A minute later, he's still fishing around in his trouser pockets for the key. "Oh," he remembers, "it'll be in my jacket. It'll probably be a good idea to get my Sonic, too, I'd forgotten about that…"  
So they head back into the Maitland house and collect his jacket, Sonic, shirt, waistcoat (Clara had never realised before just how many layers he had on, normally) and beloved bowtie.  
After several minutes of searching, however, they still cannot find the TARDIS key. "Perhaps you dropped it in the kitchen when you were fiddling with the oven?" Clara suggests.  
"Ah, yes, probably. Notorious for dropping things, am I. Did you know there's now a tradition in Oustakiphobistain 6511 to drop biscuits before eating them because of me? Yes, they started worshipping me as a god, because I am quite tall – they're all below two and a half feet, the people of O-6511 – and said they would bring me whatever I desired. Naturally, I asked for an endless supply of Jammie Dodgers, some spare bowties and a fez. But when I finally got around to eating one of the biscuits, I dropped it rather spectacularly. I jumped forward one hundred years in the TARDIS, after that, and accidentally fulfilled the prophecy of my return and discovered that it was a long-held custom to fumble Jammie Dodgers. I managed to eat one without dropping it the next time, which made them question their entire existence…" the Doctor rattles happily as they go back downstairs, Clara following him with the small smile that always graces her face when he talks about his adventures.  
"… And once," he's telling her when they reach the kitchen, "I went to Flig-Pomp, named after the alien race that inhabits it – not as nice as they sound – and actually _did _lose my TARDIS key. They demanded I trade my friend, Donna, for the return of the key. I got around it, of course… Do you know, I'd nearly forgotten about that… quite a few years ago now…" the Doctor trails off, looking sad for a moment. _Because she's forgotten about it, too. _And it was supposed to be up to him to remember those times for both of them.  
"Donna who?" Clara asks quickly, to get his mind off whatever is causing him pain.  
"Donna Noble. Very smart, very funny. Was a temp, in Chiswick…" he tells her.  
"Not – not _Donna Noble, _as in the woman who won the lottery a couple of years ago?"  
"The very same," he smiles.  
"My aunt used to know her," Clara says. "I didn't know she travelled with you."  
"Neither does she," he says simply and quietly. His eyes look so impossibly far away, so distant and sorrowful, that Clara doesn't know what else to do but hug him. After half a heartbeat, he hugs her back. She doesn't really know what he means, about Donna not knowing, but she's sure he'll tell her someday, if he's ever ready.  
After perhaps even longer than a minute, Clara pulls away. She could have stayed like that, hugging the Doctor, for maybe a little longer than forever, but they do need to get going.  
"Your key," she says quickly, and they resume the search.  
Five minutes pass before something occurs to Clara. "Doctor, earlier, when we were coming down the stairs, I saw Artie putting something in his pocket… you don't think that maybe it was-"  
He groans. "The TARDIS key. Probably thought he'd dropped it, or you or his dad – I can't imagine him stealing it on purpose…"  
"He wouldn't," Clara assures him. "I'll get it back from him this afternoon. But, no matter… we've got a ghost to see, eh?"  
The Doctor hangs his head in anticipation of disappointing Clara, something he never wants to do. He'd do anything to make her smile, and just as much to make sure she never, ever has to frown. "No, we can't," he says.  
"Are you telling me," Clara mutters slowly, "that your _incredible, amazing, bigger-on-the-inside blue box _does not have a spare key?"  
"Oh, no, it has several," he assures her.  
"Well, then, what's the problem?"  
"They're all locked inside. But can I tell her you called her 'incredible' and 'amazing'? She might like that."  
"Tell her what you want, so long as it makes your Snogbox let us in," she dismisses.  
The Doctor shuffles around a bit. "She won't let us in. After 1300 years of time and space and you think I'm going to configure my ship to let people in without a key?"  
"No, of course not – but surely she'll let _you_ in?"  
"Not even me. Well, she used to open up when I snapped my fingers, for a while there. But when I was traveling with my friend, Amelia, and her husband, Rory, we encountered these creatures called the 'Flesh' – exact duplicates of humans that sometimes even the TARDIS couldn't tell from the original. Anyway, sometimes the Flesh could go wrong, could _be _wrong, and well… I had to protect the TARDIS from that. So I upgraded her security system. I'm telling you, Clara, she won't let us in."  
Clara frowns. "Well, I guess that's that then," she says  
She doesn't look _too unbearably _upset, which is good, thinks the Doctor. He's not sure he could manage Clara being upset.  
But even a _bit _upset is quite bad. "We can go back to Artie's school – get the key off him…" he suggests.  
Clara's already shaking her head, however. "We're not dragging the kid out of class because you were too silly to bring a spare key. Nope, Chin Boy, you're stuck here with me for the day."  
She expects him to frown or to whine or to complain how "he'll be bored in ten minutes". But he doesn't. He just smiles at her and says, "Well, then, Clara Oswald, what do you want to do?"  
Clara gazes at him for a second, making up her mind. "Help me make another soufflé?"  
"Absolutely."  
The Doctor thinks Clara looks surprised when he doesn't say anything. He can almost see what she was thinking – that he'd get bored. Of course, that's happened before. When he gets left in a place that reeks of domestic boringness, he normally goes crazy. But not today. After all, an adventure is not what you do, but who you spend it with. And he'd do anything to have the day with her.  
Of course, that's not to say he _wouldn't _appreciate something interesting happening. Are soufflés known to attract rare species of hungry, problematic aliens?


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 4**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

The Doctor takes a while to fix the oven, but manages it. Clara half-suspects that he does it slower than he normally would to make the repairs, simply so he'll have something to do for the next while – they've got a day to fill, after all.  
After he has actually got the stove working again, they bake a soufflé. Or attempt it. The Doctor gets flour all over himself, while Clara watches and laughs at him. He retaliates by tapping her nose with a white-powdered finger, leaving a pale smudge. They end up laughing more than actually paying attention to the soufflé, and it ends up not _really _working. So they christen it the 'Sort-Of Soufflé' and then go wash and hang out the Doctor's grease-covered clothes to try.  
By the time all this is done, it's only 11:30. Clara could have sworn that days alone used to go faster, but the anticipation of time travel and adventure makes the time tick by incredibly slowly.  
After a while they crash on the couch and turn on the TV – it's a re-run of _Ghostbusters. _The Doctor insists he was doing the lighting for this episode, and Clara isn't even sceptical of it.  
After about ten minutes, though, she excuses herself and goes upstairs and lies on her bed quietly for a while, unable to watch anymore. It's not that she's got a problem with the show, far from it. But the memories of her mother watching it when she was a kid are a little painful, and not something she really needs right now.  
Maybe five minutes pass before she hears the Doctor follow her upstairs to see if she's ok. Clara takes a deep breath and goes out to meet him, explaining that all is well and she simply has a headache (she actually does, by now).  
Quite firmly, the Doctor tells her to go and get some sleep.  
She does.  
When she wakes up, it's 3:15. Clara panics a little, not having meant to have slept for _that _long. She hadn't actually intended to nap at all – rather, to use it as an excuse to curl up quietly in her room for a while and think about her mum.  
Apprehensively, she rushes downstairs, uncertain as to what the Doctor will have done to keep himself occupied for around four hours.  
"Doctor," she calls, swinging hurriedly round the bannister, "I'm late to go get Artie - he'll be worried, not to mention bored. Just wait here-"  
"It's ok, Clara, I'm here," she hears Artie say from the kitchen.  
Clara turns on her heel and heads towards his voice.  
"You know you're not supposed to walk home by yourself," she tells him, though she is sort of a _bit_ glad she doesn't have to leave the house now. She's still disoriented from her nap.  
"I didn't," the ten year old assures her. "The Doctor came and got me. He said you were sick and that he was picking me up instead,"  
"Hello, Clara!" the Doctor shouts from the garden. She's about to stick her head out the window and ask what he's doing when she notices what Artie's eating.  
"Is that… fish fingers and custard?" Clara asks him carefully.  
Artie nods happily. "Yeah. The Doctor made it for me. It's very nice – would you like to try some?"  
"No thanks, not right now," Clara declines. It looks interesting, but she's not really hungry.  
"Are you better now?" Artie asks, looking concerned.  
"Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm fine. Listen, you didn't happen to find a little silver key this morning, did you?"  
Artie just nods again. "Yes, I already gave it back to the Doctor. Sorry I took it, I thought it was Dad's, and I didn't want you to accidentally vacuum it up or anything."  
Clara just ruffles his hair. "Okey dokey, kid," she says.

Twenty minutes later, Angie comes home. "Oh, hello, Doctor," she says, mildly surprised to see him still here. Only mildly, though.  
"Hello, Angie. Was your day as boring as the history assignment dictated it would be?"  
She smiles. "Yes."  
He nods. "Thought so. First-hand experience with topics like that is much more beneficial," he reasons.  
"Yeah, but rather hard to get. I'd need a time machine, and those aren't real."  
"Yes," the Doctor agrees. "Quite."

Artie's sitting on the couch, reading his Amelia William's book. The Doctor sits next to him, reading one of that author's from a different series, occasionally pausing to ask Artie a question. Clara's washing up in the kitchen.  
Angie walks over to the counter, dumping her bag on the carpet and grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl. "So," she asks Clara. "Where did you go for your date today?"  
"Nowhere," Clara replies, before a moment later remembering to dispute Angie assumption and tell her that they are not, in fact, dates. "And it's just us going places, no dates involved." _Well, actually, _she thinks to herself, _there are quite a lot of dates involved. But not the type you're thinking of.  
_"Why? We were at school all day. You could've gone wherever you wanted."  
"I lost my car keys," Clara invents.  
"Why not go in the Doctor's car?"  
Clara laughs. "Artie accidentally took his keys to school. We were stuck here for the day. Did nothing. How was school?"  
"I did 'nothing' same as you." Angie says, knowing that _obviously _Clara and the Doctor didn't literally sit completely still and not even breathe _all day._

After another couple of hours, the Doctor farewells the Maitland children and Clara, giving the latter a hug and Artie a high five, and promising Miss Oswald to be back tomorrow at 9am.  
He smiles, tossing his TARDIS key from hand to hand, and leaves.  
A couple of moments later, the vroo-shing noise of the Doctor's marvellous machine echoes in the distance, now a familiar sound to Clara by now but not for Artie and Angie.  
"What was that?" the boy asks.  
"Just the Doctor's car," Clara lies. "There's a problem with its engine."  
That moment, however, the children's father arrives home, and the topic of conversation is diverted elsewhere. Clara does her best to keep the chatter away from the Doctor's general direction, and mostly succeeds. Artie gets as far as '… and Clara's friend was…' before he remembers his great football victory from lunch, and the talk steers away from 'John Smith'. Inevitably, however, Angie brings him up again, leading Clara to simply explain to Mr Maitland that "… something happened to the oven, and one of my mechanically-savvy friends came over to fix it."

After a few more weeks, Angie is forced to conclude that the Doctor _is not _Clara's boyfriend, however much he'd like to be. He's quite close to it, however – the only thing that would tip an outsider off that they are not a young married couple would be the evidence provided by Artie all those days ago – "she hasn't kissed him yet". Angie had passed it off then as the children's presence being a barrier, but surely once in nearly a month Clara would have slipped up, or maybe the Doctor.  
He shows up, periodically, both when expected and by surprise (oddly enough, John Smith himself is somehow unaware when his arrival is not anticipated), collecting Clara for the day and disappearing again, sometimes staying around to help Artie with his homework or do odd jobs, though he's never yet stayed long enough to meet the children's father. Of course, there was the odd time where Clara would just disappear for a couple of days, always ringing in advance to explain with some reason or another. Their father had been fine with it, of course, saying he didn't want to keep Clara 'restricted', and that they could easily manage without her for at least a little while.  
Today, the Doctor has promised Clara _Radical 3_ (a space station mall), and they are very nearly ready to go. Clara is just shutting the windows when the phone rings.  
Signally hurriedly for the Doctor to be quiet, she picks it up. "Hello, Clara Oswald speaking? Maitland residence."  
"Oh, hello, is this Angie Maitland's nanny? She said you might be the one to pick up…" a rather harried-sounding lady says.  
Clara shrugs at the description 'nanny'. She was yet to find a word that detailed her role in the family that she liked. 'Governess' was a good one, though it did sound a bit too strict.  
"What's the problem?" Clara asks the lady, who she assumes must be from Angie's high school.  
"Angie sprained her ankle in HPE class. Could you please come and get her? She's got a textbook to do some work from, but the school would feel more comfortable if she could rest at home…"  
Clara frowns. That's probably some dumb insurance policy. She can't wait to go to _Radical 3_, but unfortunately it looks like that will have to be put off.  
"Ok, yes, I'll be there shortly," Clara tells the lady, hanging up.  
She quickly explains the situation to the Doctor. "But," he says, "we can go to Radical 3 and then pop back here with _plenty _of time for you to get her."  
"No thank you," Clara replies. "What happens if you overshoot again and land us a couple of days in the future, and we can't redouble across our own time lines? A week ago you literally had to hop us into a pocket universe just for time to allow me to make a call explaining to the Maitland's that I'll be away for a couple of days I've really already missed. Besides, I don't want to live my life in a funny order. You're welcome to leave, if you need to, and hop forwards and pick me up tomorrow," she tells him, her eyebrow quirking.  
"Oh, no, I'll stay with you," he assures her. She smiles and he can't help but smile back.  
So they go and pick up Angie in the car and take her home. She's reluctant to do the work her teacher set for her to make-up on what she'll miss, saying "it's Friday afternoon".  
"It doesn't have to be Friday afternoon," the Doctor mutters to Clara quietly. "It can be Friday morning. Tuesday last week."  
"Hush," she tells him, smiling.  
Angie watches the two of them intently when they're at home, later. They seem closer than last time he was over. It's only been an hour, and yet he's kissed her on the forehead at least twice and hugged her maybe three times.  
"Well," Clara tells her, when Angie's just sitting on the couch doing nothing, "if you aren't going to do your school work, come upstairs and go lie down for a bit. You look tired."  
Surprisingly, Angie doesn't complain. Clara thinks she looks preoccupied, as if her mind is long way away. She's curious as to what's bothering her, but doesn't push it.  
Ten minutes later, when Angie's lying on her bed and Clara's about to leave her room, the teen calls out after her. "Do you remember when my mum broke her ankle, Clara?" she asks suddenly.  
It immediately clicks for the nanny what was on her charge's mind earlier.  
"Of course I do, Angie. I came over to babysit you and Artie so she could rest," Clara replies carefully, turning on her heel and heading back over across the room, and sitting gently on the edge of Angie's bed.  
"I miss her," the girl mutters, looking away.  
Clara takes her hand. "I know. I miss my mum too."  
Angie squeezes her hand back, and then lets go and rolls over. "I'm alright," she says quietly.  
"Ok," Clara replies. She knows that that means she really isn't fine, but would rather be not alright alone.  
Clara leaves Angie by herself and continues up the stairs to her own room. Quietly, she picks up her book, _101 Places to See, _and hugs it to her chest. The Doctor will be downstairs fixing, making or breaking something - she's fairly sure he won't come find her. So she copies Angie, lying down on her bed and letting tears for her mother fall.  
Clara doesn't normally cry. She used to cry a fair bit, but since about a year after her mother died, she tried to stop all together. Once you started crying for something you'd lost, it was hard to stop, but no matter how many of your tears fell; they didn't call the lost thing home. She tried not to think about her mother and the sadness those memories caused _too _much, but sometimes little things would set her off. Like Angie remembering her own mother.

The Doctor has his Sonic Screwdriver in one hand, and a regular, boring, human-y on in the other. He can't really see what makes the latter one a 'screw driver' at all – sure, it might _drive screws _into place, but that was entirely it. No lights, no noise (well, he supposes he should have seen that one coming, it's not called 'sonic' like his, after all) and nothing useful. He wonders how people have managed to build such interesting machines for decades with nothing but rubbish tools like this to work with.  
It's then he hears the crying – Clara's crying. A normal human wouldn't be able to pick up the sound, it was far too quiet, but his rather impressively sticky-out Timelord ears trace it instantly. He analyses the sound in his head: it's not crying for attention, obviously: one, because Clara's far too old and too clever to use tears to get him interested and two, it's soft, like she doesn't want anyone to hear but is too sad to not cry. And the tears would have been too quiet for any human to hear them, but he's not even a little bit human, and Clara his under his protection. Not just protection from horrible aliens and conniving people, but also loss and fear and sadness.  
Dropping one screwdriver and slipping the other into his suit jacket's pocket, he makes an about turn and quickly dashes into the house, up the stairs to Clara's room. He knows the Maitland's house quite well by now; he's there a lot more than he technically needs to be.  
He doesn't knock when he goes in. Perhaps it would have been polite, but he doesn't really care that much. Clara's curled up on her doona, facing away from him. The Doctor isn't sure if she heard him come in or not, and while he doesn't want to startle her, he also can't stand to watch her cry. He's still not sure why she's even upset at all – before he sees the _101 Places to See _lain carefully beside her and it hits him.  
Clara's always there for him with a hug or simply an 'I'm so sorry,' when he needs to talk about the people he has lost: like Donna, the other day, and the Ponds.  
So he scoops Clara up in his arms like she weighs nothing at all and gently sits down on her bed, placing her on his lap. He half expects her to pull away, to say that she's fine, but she doesn't. She just buries her face is his shoulder and keeps on crying.  
The Doctor carefully wraps his arms around his waist and holds her close and lets her tears fall. He doesn't know how long they stay like that. Five minutes? Ten?  
They're still hugging each other when Angie very quietly opens the door, her mouth open to say something before she sees them. Clara doesn't notice her, as she is turned away.  
Angie just looks concerned and raises her eyebrows questioningly at the Doctor, who pointedly gazes at the book _101 Places to See, _and mouths the word '_Mum_'. The teenager nods quietly and leaves the room.  
A while later, Clara pulls away from the Doctor and sits beside him on her bed, resting her head on his shoulder. "Sorry," she mutters.  
"Nothing to be sorry about," he tells her softly, taking her hand. "Sadness catches up with us all. It's good to remember people, Clara. If you still cry it lets you know you still care - that you haven't forgotten."  
He feels her nod. "I'll be down in a minute," she says, and the Doctor takes this as his cue to leave.  
He meets Angie in the living room. "Is she alright?" Angie asks him.  
"She will be. What about you?" he replies, noticing how her eyes are slightly red-rimmed.  
"I'm fine," she says in a slightly steely voice. "What was actually wrong with Clara?"  
The Doctor shrugs. "Just memories, I think. Maybe bad ones, maybe good ones – both are just as likely to cause tears. I think I'll take her somewhere, to shift her mind from them. Do you think your family would be able to manage without her for a day?"  
Angie nods. "'Course," she tells him.  
So an hour later, he disappears with Clara, the Doctor having told Angie that they're going to inner London, and having specifically told Clara '_Victorian'_.

It's that afternoon, though, when Angie finally does open up her textbook. When she sees the picture: ancient and clearly dated a very long time ago. When she _does _go downstairs in a rush to confront Clara about it, all she finds is Artie, clutching a USB with a very peculiar expression on his face.  
"She and the Doctor are still gone," he explains. "Dad came home early. I think he wants to meet the Doctor, now, though he didn't manage it."  
"He probably wants to make sure he's ok for Clara," Angie tells him dismissively. "I've noticed dads and uncles and so forth seem to like checking that sort of thing."  
"What?"  
"Never mind," she says, a mischievous smile forming on her face. "You won't believe what I've found."  
"Oh yeah?" Artie replies, his eyebrows quirking as he waves the USB in her face. "Take a look at what I saw doing my history project today.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 5**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

Angie understands what Artie doesn't, when they go to the future. To him, it's just an adventure, like a wondrous dream. But for Angie, it's a realisation: _this is what Clara goes off to, every day. This world. How long before she gets so caught up in her marvellous adventures that she forgets about the life she has back home? How long before she stops coming back?  
_So she pretends the future is rubbish, in a vain attempt to convince Clara that it is, despite the fact this planet, these adventures, are clearly not. She secretly loves it, and that's the problem – if _she_ likes it so much, what must it be for her nanny? Travelling anywhere in all in time and space with a man who is clearly very much in love with her, that's got to be something very special. More special than a boring old house, a regular home, in London, England, Earth.  
Then there's the Cybermen, of course, who distract Angie from everything. She does her best to protect Artie, and fails miserably, but at least they get out alive. She doesn't remember most of it.  
And then, of course, the Emperor proposes marriage to Clara. For half a moment, Angie thinks she'll say yes. She even encourages her to – though she's not sure why, the last thing she wants Clara to do it leave. Perhaps to get it over and done with quickly is her subconscious reasoning: to stop her having to count the days until the inevitability of Clara departing for forever occurs, and just let it happen now.  
The look on the Doctor's face after the Emperor proposes tells Angie loud and clear, however, that no matter how much she might want to, Clara _is most definitely not becoming Queen of the Universe. _Angie watches as the Doctor hurriedly intervenes, and smiles. Perhaps he'll have to lift his game – Clara won't keep turning down proposals to be Empress forever. But it's too clear that the Doctor already knows that. And that he's going to make sure she _does _turn them down, every single time.

"Thank you, Clara's boyfriend!" Artie calls over his shoulder as they exit the TARDIS. Angie smirks – she still hasn't told him her discoveries turned up negative on that front. To her surprise, though, she doesn't hear any contradictory statements as she follows her brother out.  
Despite being put into a comatose state by metal men, Artie seems to have had the time of his life, with none of the worries that etch away at Angie's mind having occurred to him.  
Unexpectedly, she hears Clara come into the house also – the slight click of the front door signally that she did not elect to remain with the Doctor in his TARDIS.  
Artie goes upstairs to bed, but Angie remains in the living room, lying down slowly on the couch as she hears her nanny follow her into the room.  
"What do we tell dad?" Angie asks her quickly without looking up.  
Clara bites her lip. "I don't know… Nothing? But that would feel like lying… No, that _would _be lying-"  
Angie cuts her off. "And sometimes lying is ok, Clara. You lied to us about the travelling to keep us safe. We can do the same for dad – he might not let you go if he found out. We blackmailed you into taking us with you, so what happened with the Cybermen wasn't your fault."  
"I suppose so," Clara says half-heartedly, and only now can Angie see just how much the worry for the Maitland children had eaten away at her for the last few hours.  
"It definitely wasn't. Do you… Do you think you'll ever take us with you again?"  
"Maybe." Clara shrugs. "But we'd have to make sure it was safe first. I have a lot of dangerous adventures with the Doctor, but a lot of pleasant ones too. You were just unlucky."  
"And how does life ever go back to being normal? After we've seen the future?"  
"It doesn't. Why do you think I keep going with the Doctor, running with him, after all the stuff that's happened to me?" Clara tells her.  
"Because you love him?" Angie replies, without missing a beat.  
"Sorry, what?" Clara asks, her eyebrows mounting on her forehead.  
She's good at concealing emotions, though. Angie already knows that – ever since Clara's mother had died, she'd watched the older girl become an expert at locking things away. So she presses on, too far to stop now. "You keep travelling with him because you love him and he loves you. God, Clara, even Artie can see it. This is a kid who said that 'Romeo and Juliet' getting together was 'an unexpected twist'. You know, it took me a while to work out why you turned Porridge down, said no to being Queen of the Universe: it's because you already are, with him, aren't you?"  
"Enough, Angie," Clara says, a little sharply. "Don't…"  
And with that, she turns and walks up the stairs. "What are you afraid of? What do you think is going to happen?" Angie calls after her, unable to see why she won't acknowledge the blatant truth.  
In that moment, Clara turns and gives her a small, sad smile. "Ang, it's not that I'm afraid of what might happen, it's what I know never will… That's the trick – don't fall in love."  
Angie thinks it's a bit too late for the Doctor and Clara to try and pull off tricks like that.

The next morning, the Maitland's father, George, brings up yesterday's events while Clara washes dishes in the kitchen. "Angie and Artie say you went to the Science Centre, yesterday," he begins.  
"Hmmm? Oh yes," Clara says. That's what they'd agreed to use as a sort of alibi, anyway.  
"Artie showed me a picture of him and his sister on one of those green-screen photo platforms – the one that made it look like they were floating on the moon," he chuckles.  
"Yes, that was rather fun."  
"They said that your boyfriend came along, too," George adds smoothly.  
Clara is caught off-guard. "Yes, he drove us there… _Wait, _he's not my boyfriend. Did Angie tell you that? Or Artie, both of them seem to be under the impression…" she trails off, shaking her head.  
She hopes that George will make some sort of comment about how kids can read too much into things, but he doesn't. Perhaps he is more inclined to believe his children on this front as opposed to Clara's half-hearted denials.  
"The kids seem to have met him a few times. Artie says he's helped him with his homework, and Angie with her assignments _and _he fixed the oven. Also the washing machine, Artie seems to think, as it doesn't rattle about so much and the dryer now actually dries things. Is he a handyman, your boyfriend?"  
"No, and he's still not my boyfriend."  
"Ok," George tells her, passively.  
"He travels around… helping people. He comes and takes me with him, some days – that's how Angie and Artie have met him. He always seems to accidentally show up a little earlier than he plans," Clara explains.  
"I see. I'd quite like to meet him, you know," George says carefully. `  
Clara bites her lip. She can see where he's coming from, easily: he's curious to see whether the Doctor is a safe type, if he'll stay with her, to assess him to see if the Doctor is ok for the kids to be around.  
She's really not left with much choice. There is no way Clara is ever giving up her time with the Doctor, and if that means he has to spend half an hour talking to George Maitland about golf, then so be it. "Ok," she mutters.  
"Has Dave met him, yet?" George asks curiously, now helping her with the washing up.  
"No, the Doctor hasn't met Dad. Like I said, he's just a friend, so I didn't see any real need to go and introduce him to all my relatives," she replies carefully.  
"Of course," George says. "And 'the Doctor' – that's an interesting name."  
"It's just a nickname, because he thinks his actual one is boring – John Smith. I don't know how he got 'the Doctor' but it's how he introduces himself. I suppose it's because he likes fixing things," Clara tells him. That may indeed be how he got the title, but she knows for certain that 'John Smith' is by no means the name it hides.

The next day, about half an hour after the Maitland's father has gone to work, the Doctor shows up - with an astronauts helmet on, no less. Thankfully, he has the sense to use the back door, as this kind of dress could attract the polite (and not to mention sceptical) curiosity of the neighbours.  
"Artie!" he calls once he's in the kitchen, and the ten year old comes rushing down the stairs.  
"Yes, Doctor?" he says, gazing up at the Timelord.  
"Look what I brought you from humanity's second settlement on the eighteenth planet of the Gurantuaolain System, '_RYCB 515' _- space man helmet!" the Doctor says excitedly, handing it to the kid just as Clara walks in.  
"What's this?" she asks, raising her eyebrows questioningly, one hand gliding onto her hip.  
"It's a space man helmet from the – the – G-ah… the Doctor will tell you…" Artie trails off, now examining every inch of the white plastic-and-steel-and-god-knows-what-else-helmet.  
The Doctor, nodding, quickly re-runs his explanatory spiel.  
"And how are you going to explain to Mr Maitland the futuristic block of space gear sitting under his son's bed?" Clara asks.  
"Ah-ha!" The Doctor says, "Now, Clara, I really did think about this – a Prop-Shop! Yes, you see, like the ones you buy costumes from on twenty-first century Earth."  
Clara nods. "And… um… speaking of Mr Maitland, Doctor – he wants to meet you," she mutters carefully.  
The Doctor jerks around from showing Artie the oxygen-conversion switch on the helmet. "OH. Why? Most things are very anxious not to meet me – ask the Gelth. Or the Daleks…" he trails off, a memory running through his brain: _Oswin Oswald, Junior Entertainment Manager, Starship Alaska! _"Actually," he changes him mind, "probably best if you _don't _ask the Daleks…"  
"Please? Just half an hour of pretending to be normal so he's ok with you coming around to the house all the time?" Clara prompts.  
"Oh – um – are you _quite sure _Clara? I'm not very good at normally… normal stuff!" he says, waving his hands in the air as if everyday life was a spooky disease one does one's best to get rid of.  
"You did a fine job of it when Angie and Artie didn't know you had the TARDIS," Clara points out.  
"No, he didn't," Angie tells her, still inspecting the helmet. "But it was good enough."  
"See? You're good enough," Clara says, and though her voice lacks confidence, it does have a _slight _edge on it.  
"Oh, I'd do it, Doctor," Artie advises him, looking up. "Clara has that face on."  
"What face?" the Doctor asks.  
"The '_You'd better do it because I'm telling you to_' face," the little boy elaborates.  
"Ah, oh yes, I know that face," the Doctor agrees.  
"What face? I don't do a face," Clara says, frowning.  
"No, absolutely not," the Doctor tells her hurriedly.  
Her frown deepens. "Well, you better watch it, else I'll invent a _'You absolutely better do it or I'll hide the key to your Bowtie Vault_' face," she mutters sternly.  
The Doctor gasps, half joking, half genuinely terrified. "You _wouldn't_,"  
"Would."  
He hangs his shoulders. "Fine," he agrees, before Artie grabs him by the hand and drags him upstairs to show him a strange seedpod he found at school, leaving just Clara and Angie in the living room, the latter holding the space helmet.  
The teen smirks. "You are _so _his girlfriend," she says, before she too leaves.  
And this time, Clara doesn't bother with long denials or explanations; she just gives up, and shrugs.

The doorbell rings. Grumbling, Angie gets up from watching TV and goes to answer it. It won't be anything interesting – it's both her dad and Artie returned (they were on their way to Cardiff for her father's business trip) because they forgot something, or the postman. Probably the latter. Clara (possibly accompanied by the Doctor) won't be home until late. Maybe not even till tomorrow.  
The bell continues to ring insistently. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" Angie calls, rolling her eyes. Postmen were always in such a rush to be other places.  
She pulls the door open. "Yeah?" she asks, before she realises it's the Doctor, a strange sort of expression on his face.  
"Put three extra pillows on Clara's bed so that her head and feet will be elevated," he instructs in a very calm, steely, no nonsense way. It scares Angie, because this is very clearly a scared Doctor.  
"Ok," she tells him, not questioning anything.  
"Is your dad at home?"  
"No."  
"Good. I'll bring her in. Wait in her room," he mutters, before disappearing, back to the TARDIS, presumably.  
Angie dashes upstairs, grabbing the additionally required pillows from hers and Artie's rooms. Normally, when Clara and the Doctor returned from various adventures, Clara would either be glowing with excitement, hyped up on adrenaline or very, very tired – and not at all in need of being 'brought in'.  
She sets up Clara's bed as instructed and stands nervously beside it, just waiting for the Doctor and her nanny. What had happened to make the Doctor afraid? What had prevented Clara from coming with him to the door?  
After a couple of minutes, she hears footsteps on the stairs, and gets out of the doorway as the Doctor sidles carefully into the room, an unnaturally still Clara held gently in his arms as if she were a china doll.  
Angie's heart feels as though as if it is a balloon being popped. Clara couldn't be dead, could she? No, if she were, the Doctor wouldn't have needed to elevate her head and feet. He would have just… Actually, Angie didn't like to think _what_the Doctor would have done.  
"Doctor?" Angie asks quietly, incredibly wary of the stormy look in his eyes. "Doctor what happened?"  
He ignores her, for the time being, instead devoting his time to setting Clara carefully down on her bed, removing her boots and making her as comfortable as possible, his eyes not leaving her face.  
"What happened?" Angie repeats, more firmly.  
"I didn't get back to her in time. The Refari, an alien family – they took her – tried to put her on display, as a human exhibit. Obviously, feeding and looking after her would have been too expensive, but they can't kill her and let her dead body decay, so they use a very specific style of 'taxidermy'. They apply a special kind of gas to preserve a human or animal in a tank. It slows every heartbeat, every breath by a thousand times. The specimen is in a comatose state for the rest of their almost-lives, which can be stretched up to five hundred years, by which time another potential exhibit will have been captured. I only got to Clara half-way through the preserving process."  
"So she's in a coma? Why'd you bring her here? Why not to a hospital in the future to fix her?" Angie asks, panicking, unable to see how this solution did not occur to the Doctor.  
"I tried. But the components of the gas are known only to the Refari who own that museum, and of course they wouldn't tell me, not after I stole back their specimen. Even the TARDIS couldn't figure it out. So I just fixed her up as best as I could and brought her here – perhaps normal surroundings will encourage normal function. But I don't _know. _Literally, only time will tell. Time – I can manipulate it however I want, but not this way. Not in a way to find out if I save Clara."  
But Angie shakes her head. "Of course you could. You can just hop a few hours into the future and see if she's alright."  
"No," the Doctor says, very fiercely. "No, I am _not _leaving her. Besides, I couldn't re-double back and cross my own timeline."  
"Ok," Angie replies quietly. "But she will be alright, won't she?"  
The Doctor presses his palms to his face, hiding his expression. "I don't know… I don't _know_," she tells her, like it kills him.  
"She _has _to be alright. She's Clara."  
"_Clara_," the Doctor echoes, like it's the most beautiful word in the world. "Angie, will your dad come home soon?"  
"No, he and Artie have gone to Cardiff on a business trip for three days. It's just supposed to be me and Clara here," she says.  
"Good. Over Clara's comatose body is not how I would choose for us to meet. Well, you'd better go to bed, it's late. I'll stay here with her," he tells Angie, taking Clara's limp, cold hand in his own larger one.  
"Are you going to sleep on the couch, or what?" Angie asks him, knowing that however much he might want to he can't stay awake for more than twenty-four straight hours.  
But he just shakes his head. "I look human, Angie, but you have to remember: I'm not. Never was, never will be. Ok, that's a lie, I'm human sometimes, but that's not really me. Well, it is… Well… Never mind. I got three hours sleep about two days ago, so that's more than enough to keep me going for the rest of the week."  
"You're going to sit here all night?" she confirms.  
He nods. "I'm not leaving her. Not ever."


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 6**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

Angie doesn't sleep well that night. The thought that Clara, in a room just a little further up the stairs, is dying, and there is nothing she can do, really gets to her. It would hurt anyone. She's already lost her own mum and Clara's the next best thing: big sister and mother, all rolled into one.  
She finally falls into a deep, peaceful rest around three o'clock in the morning, however, only to be woken at eight am by her phone ringing.  
"Hello?" she asks sleepily, picking it up, rubbing her eyes as the blare of the screen's light hits her.  
"Hi, Angie, it's Dad. Just calling to make sure everything's fine," she hears her father's voice on the other end of the line.  
"Yeah," Angie lies after a second. "Everything's great. Listen, can you put Artie on?"  
"Of course," her dad chuckles. "You know, you two seem to have gotten a lot closer recently…"  
_I bet, _she thinks. _Having a secret does that to people. Unites them under the untold._  
"Artie?" she asks, when she thinks she hears the phone change hands.  
"Yeah? What is it? Did the Doctor take you to an alien planet without me?" his curious little voice echoes over the tens of miles between them.  
"Shut up! Dad will hear you! And no. But go into another room, out of earshot of him, I've got something to tell you…" she instructs.  
Angie quickly summarises to her little brother the occurrences of yesterday, the phone pressed between her ear and shoulder as she multitasks, getting dressed at the same time. "So…" she finishes.  
"I'll get dad to take us home right away… if she's dying… she can't die…" Artie gabbles, and Angie can immediately can tell he's about to start crying.  
She takes a deep breath and does her 'big sister' thing for a moment. "She's not dying, Artie, and she's not going to," she lies, knowing she has to make sure Artie thinks everything is relatively ok, even if it isn't. "She's just sleeping. She's very, very sick, I won't sugar-coat it, but she won't die. I will… I _will promise will _you that, kid."  
"I'll get dad to bring us home _right now_," he says loudly, and she can practically _see _his concerned face, despite the space that separates them.  
"No, Artie, no, you can't. If the first time Dad meets the Doctor is over Clara's dying body, do you think he'd be ok with that? Of course not!" she reminds him.  
"_Dying body?_ _You said she was ok!_" Artie practically shrieks.  
"No, I didn't mean to say that… accidental exaggeration… Look, Artie, you're going to have to be really grown up for everyone, and not tell Dad. Don't do anything. Just act normal. If anything, try to keep Dad _away_ for as long as possible. I guess… I guess it comes down to '_do we trust the Doctor_'?"  
"Yes," Artie replies immediately.  
"Me too," Angie admits.  
"He's saved us too many times. And saves Clara every day. He can save her again, can't he?" this is more a genuine question as opposed to a rhetorical one.  
"Yeah. Right. Listen, I have to go. Bye!" Angie says, hanging up and pulling on a jumper before climbing up the stairs two at a time to Clara's room.  
She doesn't know what she expects to see. Clara sitting up, smiling? Her and the Doctor, talking happily? No, that's what she hopes, not what she expects.  
Angie carefully pushes open the closed door. "Doctor?" she asks quietly.  
The Timelord doesn't even look tired. He hasn't moved from the previous night – nearly ten hours later, he's still sitting on his chair, still holding Clara's hand.  
But now he looks excited. "She's finished breathing!" he tells Angie happily.  
"What? Doctor, how is that even remotely good?" Angie gasps, rushing over to Clara's bedside and looking down at her unmoving nanny.  
He shakes his head. "Right – explaining. Well, yesterday evening, I thought she was in a coma. But she's not. I thought her body had been slowed down a bit, but it hasn't been. It's been slowed down a lot – Clara has been frozen in a blink: a really long one. That will keep going forever, literally a thousand years in the blink of an eye, unless I do something. I worked it out by timing her breaths – her last one took two hours for inhalation and two and a half to exhale. The gas doesn't just slow her down, it temporarily slots her into a different time stream... Like Appulapachia."  
"So how do we get her out?" Angie asks, having not understood his last comment.  
"Some kind of adrenaline shot, I suppose, to shock her back into reality, but that'll be hard to pull off. We just need something to happen that would make her heart race if she were awake – it'll jolt her out of the blink and snap her back into this time stream."  
"OK, how does that even work?" Angie asks.  
"Wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff," he says, by way of clarification. "Adrenaline wakes you up. It should give her mind enough of a jab to knock her awake."  
"If you say so. How are you going to give her a shock like that, though?" Angie queries.  
"Running? Running always gets your heart racing…" the Doctor suggests, his mind clearly not functioning properly.  
"Doctor – she's comatose. You can't take comatose people for a run," Angie reminds him.  
"Unless they're projections by Prisoner Zero," he agrees. The Doctor knew very well what made his heart race. _Looking at Clara. Thinking about Clara. Talking to Clara. Being with Clara. Anything involving Clara, really. _  
"Well, I can think of something," he admits. "But I'm going to need some pretty advanced neuro-technology from 3012 to channel mental reactions to stimulus from my mind to hers – though I'm not sure she'll react the same way… People hardly ever do about themselves…" he thinks aloud.  
It takes Angie a couple of minutes, but she eventually cottons on to where-abouts the Doctor's thoughts are travelling. "You're going to try and give your emotional reaction from Clara… _to _Clara. Will that be enough?"  
"Yes," he replies immediately. "But the neuro-technology I need would involve me travelling, which means Clara would be left either here or in the TARDIS… and she's not in a stable condition, so…" he trails off.  
Angie shrugs. "So just_ kiss her._"  
The Doctor looks shocked. "No, no, it has to be a reaction that will _affect Clara._"  
"Oh, that will, trust me," Angie smirks. While Clara is very good at hiding her feelings towards anything and anyone, the Doctor must have been pretty obtuse not to have picked them up.  
"Come on," Angie prompts. "If it doesn't work, we'll try something else, and she won't remember it anyway."  
The Doctor fidgets like a small child. "Are you _very sure_… She might get cross with me."  
Angie grabs his wrist. "Doctor – I'm sure. Look, you're over a thousand years old. Stop acting like you're fifteen."  
"Fine." The Doctor says, and squeezes Clara's hand as if he believes that if he lets go, even for a second, she'll disappear. And then the childish side of the Doctor disappears for a moment – just completely gone. He kneels down beside Clara's unerringly still form and kisses her so gently you'd think she was made of glass.  
A second goes by, and he pulls away. A moment ticks away. Then another.  
And then Clara Oswald opens her eyes and slaps the Doctor.  
"Hey!" he splutters. "What was that for!"  
"Sorry – right – it's you… You're not that Refari thing… Where am I? What's – Angie?" Clara mutters, clearly very lost. She still hasn't moved anything but her head, however, like she's only semi-alive. Or perhaps paralysed.  
"Yeah, it's me. The Doctor saved you and brought you here," Angie says quietly, relieved to see Clara awake.  
The Doctor nods. "You've been in an Echo Time Stream. That's why you're so disoriented. It's literally been two seconds for you, but about twelve hours for us."  
Clara nods. "I can't feel my body," she mutters.  
The Doctor cups her cheek in his hand. "You're still half in the Echo. Now you're awake, though, you should be able to pull yourself out of it. Just wait. You'll start to go numb in your shoulders, eventually, then feeling should start to return to them. This will happen in a wave down your body – your feet will wake up last. That's just because they were the first to 'fall asleep', as it were, and are in deeper to the Echo stream than the rest of you."  
"How long will it take for me to be completely normal again?" Clara asks, clearly disgruntled.  
"You are never completely normal, Clara. But about two days," he tells her.  
Clara's eyebrows skyrocket. "_Two days! _I can't lie around in my bed for _two days_!"  
Angie realises that Clara doesn't remember the kiss. At all. She's not whether she's glad or annoyed about that: it's good that she doesn't have to awkwardly stand around and watch Clara get angry at the Doctor or work out how she wants to react, but annoying that the Doctor and Clara can't finally get together like she knows they should.  
The Doctor is shaking his head rapidly like a dog in response to Clara's last comment. "No, no, no. I won't make you do nothing. I promise. How about… Once you can move your arms, which should be around sometime tonight or tomorrow, I'll take you to some nice, peaceful planets in the TARDIS and we can just sit outside her and look around. How's that?"  
"Angie – I can't leave Angie here alone," Clara points out.  
"We don't have to leave her here – she can come," the Doctor says quickly, taking Clara's hand again. Angie's half sure that Clara doesn't even notice the contact for a full minute, as she can't feel it, before she eventually sees his grasp and smiles.  
"I'll be fine on my own," Angie says eventually, despite _desperately _wanting to come. But she knows the Doctor and Clara have stuff they need to sort out. Even if the latter doesn't know it yet.  
"But your dad left you here with the understanding that I would look after you," Clara reminds her.  
"Which you'll do a great job of while you're immobile and getting increasingly cross and bored," Angie counters.  
"Oi," Clara says.  
"Well, it's true. You don't like doing nothing. The only person worse than you at being still is the Doctor. Besides, I'm fifteen… you managed on your own most of the time when you were my age."  
"I know, but…" Clara gives up, and both Angie and the Doctor realise how exhausted she looks.  
"Sleep," the Doctor instructs.  
"But…" is as far as Clara gets before her body obeys, and she slumps unconscious.  
A moment goes by. "That wasn't a normal 'going to sleep'" Angie observes.  
"No," the Doctor agrees. "That was her physically unable to stay awake. That wasn't falling asleep, that was collapsing. But she'll be ok now. The worst of the process is over. We'll leave her to sleep," he decides, and Angie follows him downstairs.  
She wanders into the kitchen, and puts the kettle on to make tea, skipping around her own feet uselessly.  
"She doesn't remember," Angie tells him.  
He doesn't have to ask what she means. "I know," he replies. "And that's good."  
Angie raises her eyebrows. "Really?"  
He drops his head a little. "No. Not really. Maybe. I don't know."  
Angie shrugs. "So just take her somewhere nice in the TARDIS and kiss her again. I honestly don't know what your problem is. Or why it's taken you so long."  
She pulls out two mugs from the drawer as she keeps brewing the tea.

Clara's eyes flick open.  
She rolls her neck. _Working, _she mentally checks off. Next, she tries her shoulders. Also fine, if not a little numb.  
A minute later, she's worked out that her left arm is functioning _mostly _ok, but her right won't move at all below the elbow. The rest of her is completely immobile.  
She checks her watch, which, thankfully, is on her left hand. It's one thirty in the afternoon. She's slept a hell of a lot longer than she intended.  
"Um… Doctor!" Clara calls out. Her voice is much weaker than usual. _Hmm, _she thinks, frowning. _This could be a bit of a setback if she has to do any shouting._ Like now. "Doctor!"  
Thirty seconds later, the Timelord himself swings into her room like an uncoordinated giraffe. "Ah! Hello!" he says happily. "You're awake. How are you?"  
"Rubbish," she replies, a little grumpily. "Nothing quite like being paralysed to spoil your day. I can't even sit up properly… Can you pass my book-" she begins, but the Doctor just shrugs and scoops her up in his arms, gently manoeuvring her form so that she's curled up against his chest.  
"Hey!" she mutters, but there's really nothing she can do about it.  
The Doctor carefully carries her downstairs, and into the living room. "Angie?" he calls.  
"Yeah?" her reply comes from her room.  
"Do you want to come and see the 8251 Nebula / Raelliam? It's quite nice this time of year… Or at least, the time of year we'll be going," he tells her.  
Clara's just forced to sit there crossly, unmoving and listening. It's not that she doesn't want to go to the 8251 what's-it, quite the opposite – she can't wait. But she'd like to take this opportunity to cross her arms over her chest and raise an eyebrow at the Doctor, while making some jibe about his inability to ever get his Snogbox to land in the right time or place as he plans, saying they'd instead end up in the early Helvitca Wars of Raxacoricalfallapatoris. Most unfortunately, however, she's forced to sit is his arms, pressed up against his warm chest, unable to do anything but check her watch should the need arise. Not that it's a bad place to be, or anything.  
"The _what _Nebula? Oh, is Clara awake now? Or have you finally cracked from boredom?" Angie asks, and Clara can hear her footsteps as the teen comes downstairs.  
The Doctor looks mildly offended by her statement. "I have _not _been bored," he says.  
Angie comes into view, and shrugs. "You weren't while Clara was in danger, but as soon as she was just asleep you started 'accidentally breaking' things so you could fix and upgrade them."  
"That wasn't boredom, that was me being productive," the Doctor tells her nonchalantly.  
Angie nods sceptically. "Right. Well, I'd love to come, but it's probably best if I don't," she says.  
"Why?" Clara asks. "It's not like we'll be able to do anything dangerous… I can't even walk," she frowns.  
"And yet…" Angie mutters, raising her eyebrows at the Doctor who just nods.  
"Right then, Angie's out. We should be back in two minutes, promise. If I accidentally time jump funny and we end up getting home _after _your Dad's back, then you'll just have to pretend we went out for milk and were really looking after you the entire time," the Doctor notes happily.  
Clara's face turns slightly worried. "And what are the chances of that actually happening, Chin Boy?"  
The Doctor shakes his head adamantly. "Absolutely none, of course, Clara. Bye, Angie."  
"Bye," she replies. "Good to see you're better, Clara. Have fun."  
And with that, the Doctor makes sure that Clara is safe in his arms before walking out the back door of the house and gently setting her down on the couch in the Control Room.  
He uses one hand to hold her steady while with the other he flies the TARDIS. Clara closes her eyes and just listens to the comforting noise of the boy and his box, and lets the exhaustion wash over her.

She obviously drifted off at some point, because when she opens her eyes, she's no longer sitting on the TARDIS's couch in the Control Room.  
Instead, Clara's snuggled up against the Doctor in the threshold of the TARDIS, which is currently floating about in space. Their legs are hanging out into thin air.  
The Doctor's arm is wrapped around Clara, holding her in place, though he hasn't noticed she's awake. He's gazing out across the stars into the darkness, watching the twirling, changing, shifting form of the nebula sitting in the air around them, which is a flickering form of a thousand different colours and shades, most of which Clara can't even name.  
Clara tries to shift, and makes a little noise of annoyance when she can't. The Doctor starts, realising she's awake.  
They talk quietly for a while, he pointing out the stars and naming every one of them.  
"How do you remember all that stuff?" she asks him finally. "All those names?"  
His face darkens for a moment. "Over a thousand years, and you end up with a lot of things you never, ever want to forget. Lots and lots of names."  
And she knows he's talking about people, not stars. So she just hugs him (her right arm is working mostly, too, now) to show she understands, but says nothing.  
They sit there silently for a few minutes, before the Doctor notices how tired Clara looks, staring off into the distance, and suggests that they go home.  
"Hang on," Clara mutters, just as the Doctor is about to get up.  
"What?" he asks, looking down at her.  
She thinks about it for half a heartbeat, before she leans up and kisses him. It's only short, just lasting a second before she pulls away. "Pay back, Chin Boy," Clara tells him, before resting her head on his shoulder.  
"What? You – ah – wait – you remember?" he splutters, before looking down and realising she's already fallen asleep again, the process of pulling herself out of the Echo time stream having utterly drained her.  
So the Timelord doesn't go home, not right now like he planned. He just sits there for a few more moments, and watches his stars, every one of which he can name, and smiles.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 7**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

This time, Clara wakes up on the couch, back home at the Maitland's. "Why the _hell_," she calls, "do I keep falling asleep so much?"  
Angie wanders in from the kitchen, munching on a piece of chocolate, and holding the rest of the bar in her hand. She shrugs. "The Doctor said it would be a side-effect of you having to subconsciously pull yourself out of the Echo time stream. You're going to be tired, because it burns a ridiculous amount of energy, and you'll be cross. Well, actually, he said that would be a side-effect of being paralysed, and it's not _technically _a symptom – it's just you."  
"Oi," Clara mutters.  
Angie holds her hands up in defence. "Hey, it was him who said it, not me. Want some chocolate?"  
Clara shrugs and nods, quite pleased with the fact she can now move both her arms reasonably well, and some feeling is beginning to return to her chest.  
Angie crashes of the couch beside her, breaking off a couple of squares from her chocolate bar and placing them in Clara's hand. As soon as their skin touches, Angie hisses in surprise and pulls back.  
"God, Clara, you're cold," she says.  
"Am I?" Clara asks, interested.  
"_Yes._ Very, very cold. Like, icy. The Doctor didn't mention _that_ in his list of side effects," Angie observes.  
Clara's eyebrows arch as she attempts to raise her hand to her mouth in order to get at the chocolate. "Speaking of the Doctor, where is he?"  
"He went out to get some Pizza from New York in the nineties, he said he'd be back soon," Angie tells her casually.  
That sentence does not sound even remotely odd to either of them.  
A moment later there is a ring at the door. "That better be him," Angie mutters. "I'm starving."  
Through no choice of her own, Clara remains on the couch, managing to nibble on the chocolate a little as she listens to the sounds of Angie and the Doctor making their way down the hall.  
"… and there was a massive queue," the Doctor is saying as he and Angie enter, the latter holding two pizza boxes, "so I jumped ahead another couple of hours, but there was _still_ a queue, so I went back to the TARDIS and she took me to a day that _wasn't _International Pizza Day, like she should have in the first place – Clara, what are you doing?"  
Clara rolls her eyes. "Eating chocolate," she tells him, and swallows.  
"No, no, no – bad idea, very bad. You shouldn't eat anything. Your digestive system is still asleep, which means you'll… choke," he finishes lamely as Clara begins to cough uncontrollably, from her ribcage upward racking with the violence of the fit, the rest of her unnervingly still.  
Clara's eyes begin to water and she can't breathe at all. She keeps coughing loudly long after she should, unable to stop for breath. She can't even throw the food back up, as her stomach is still in the Echo stream, so the chocolate simply sits there in her oesophagus, re-solidifying in her throat due to her body temperature being so cold, and slowly choking her.  
Slightly panicked, the Doctor picks Clara up hurriedly and pulls past Angie, who follows along behind him as they rush to the TARDIS. Clara passes out from lack of air just as they cross over the ship's threshold.  
Angie still takes a quick breath of wonder at the size and splendour of the TARDIS, but this is not the time to appreciate it, as she has to nearly run to keep up with the Doctor. The Timelord holds onto Clara hard yet gently, as the human girl's face slowly tints blue.  
They dash down a corridor to the ship's medical bay, which the Snogbox has had the decency to move closer to them.  
Within three minutes of the Doctor's return from New York, they have Clara placed carefully on the med bay's cot in a sealed glass tank, while the Doctor fiddles with a whole lot of buttons on a small console in the middle of the room, and Angie presses her face against the glass that separates her and Clara, watching the older girl.  
"What's happening?" Angie asks, feeling the worry flood her.  
The Doctor looks a little angry. "She's choking, obviously. _I didn't tell you to give her food_!" he snaps as an afterthought.  
Angie glares crossly back at him. "You didn't tell me not to, either."  
"I thought it would be obvious to you," he explains.  
"Well, it wasn't obvious to me and it wasn't obvious to her. This isn't my fault, it's yours – _you're_ the one who took her to the stupid Refari museum in the first place," Angie retorts.  
The slight anger on the Doctor's face immediately crumples away to one of guilt. "Yeah. I know. I'm sorry I got cross at you. Getting cross is not good, not even for grumpy, one thousand year old Timelords."  
"That's fine."  
"No, it's not. The St-A-Biliser – that's the glass tank Clara's in – is going to dissolve all food substances in her body, which will allow her to start breathing again…"  
"But…" Angie prompts, sensing there's one coming.  
"But nothing," the Doctor replies about a thousand times too quickly.  
"Doctor?"  
He sighs, and looks over at her. "But… Well, you know how I said Clara was tired because the energy required for her to pull herself out of the Echo system was exhausting her?"  
"Yes?"  
"If I get rid of all her energy by taking away all food and food-like substances in her body… She'll have to burn something to come out of the Echo…" he trails off.  
"Like what, Doctor?" Angie asks, not liking where this is going. "And we probably shouldn't be wasting time talking, Clara's choking."  
"Hmm? No, she's not – right now, she's in suspended animation, frozen in time. No better, no worse."  
"You're avoiding my other question – _like what_, Doctor? What will she have to burn to pull herself out of the Echo word if food energy is not an option?" Angie presses forth, fear and worry threatening to consume her. Yesterday, Clara was dying, and then she got better. Today, Clara is dying again, and the chances of recovery are looking slimmer.  
"I don't know," he replies, every one of his a thousand years clearly etched on his face, though he simultaneously looks young and lost. "Maybe… maybe her memories? Years of her life, days of her future? Echo time streams are funny things, I honestly have no idea what would happen – it might burn up her hair colour, make it go from brown to white. It might do any number of things."  
Together, they look at Clara's still, placid looking form, resting perfectly on the cot in the glass tank, like an exhibit in a museum, too fragile to be taken out into the real world, only a precious wonder to viewed from the outside looking in.  
"I could… leave her there," the Doctor adds in a soft voice. "Keep her safe, behind that glass. Keep her perfect, absolutely beautiful, caught in that one moment."  
Angie thinks for a second. "Then why did you save her from the museum in the first place, Doctor? You and the Refari, you're the same: quite happy to keep her shut away. She might be perfect to you, Doctor, but if you really love her, then she'll be perfect no matter what happens to her, what she remembers or doesn't or whatever. You think she's beautiful - that shouldn't change," she mutters.  
"Who says I love her?" the Doctor counters quickly.  
Angie smiles. "You do, every day. Or at least, you think it _very loudly_."  
The Timelord's eyebrows shoot up, but his shoulders slump in defeat. "That loudly, huh?"  
"Yup," Angie confirms. "And maybe you should actually _tell _Clara that, once in a while."  
"Maybe I should," he murmurs. Then the Doctor's face sets in a hard line. "I'm going to save her. Right here, right now. You remember this, Angie Maitland, because _this_ is the day _the Doctor, _Last of the Timelords, does something really, truly incredible to save the most important human girl alive."  
Angie smiles. _This _was more like it. But there is something oddly final about the way he talks. "What are you going to try?" she asks tentatively.  
The Doctor walks over to her, taking her shoulders firmly in his hands. "Do you remember, before, when I accidentally mentioned 'Appulapachia' and you had no idea what I was talking about?"  
Angie nods carefully. "Yes."  
The Doctor twirls around, the ends of his purple tailcoat swirling after him like two eager, snapping dogs. "Well, I went there with a friend of mine once… and stuff happened… not really a story that can be told, only one should never have been lived… well, anyway, there ended up being two versions of my best friend, one old and one young… only one could live, you see, time would make sure of that. And so I'm going to do what Amelia Pond did, all those years ago," he says.  
Angie knits her eyebrows. "Doctor? What? I don't understand. What's this got to do with helping Clara?"  
The Doctor just smiles a little sadly, flicking a series of switches on the console system that controls the medical bay facilities. "Clara… my Clara… my beautiful, impossible girl…" he whispers, and then, unexpectedly, the Timelord's voice rises to a shout. "_Angie Maitland, I am giving her the days!_"


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 8**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

Angie doesn't understand.  
_Giving her the days? What did that even mean? _ So she asks.  
The ancient Timelord simply turns and smiles sadly at her. "I'm not expecting you to understand just yet, Angie, but I'm going to try and explain it anyhow. I'm an alien, yes? Well, my race, my people, a very long time ago, worked out a way to cheat death. A person perishing simply occurs when their physical form tires out. But bodies… bodies are boring. So whenever I die, whenever I am killed, I do a thing called _regeneration. _Basically, there's a big burst of light, I get a new face, new body, but the same old memories, and after I catch my breath, I go back on running. As simple as that. But if I'm not killed, I can go on living for a very… very long time. My forms don't die of old age."  
"So?" Angie couldn't see how this would help Clara.  
"I'm going to give her some of the energy that maintains my life force. Using the vortex in the heart of the TARDIS as a channel, I am literally going to transplant days from me to her. It'll reduce the lifetime of this version of me… it might even allow me to age… not that that matters, of course, I've lived a very long time. But it'll give Clara the boost she needs to pull herself out of the Echo and survive," the Doctor explains.  
Angie _sort of _gets it. Besides, she figures, if he's already over a thousand, he can probably afford to give a few of those years to save that girl.

_It's dark, for Clara. Dark and cold. Like she's been packed in ice. She's not breathing - there's no oxygen - but that doesn't seem to bother her. She has no need of air. She doesn't need to blink or move, either. Because Clara Oswald is hollow. And empty. Like time itself has forgotten her existence. She is caught half way between a sleep in the Echo stream and death in the other world, the real world. Earth. Her home.  
And there is just one word in her mind, two syllables: Doctor.  
Her Doctor. After a while, something else occurs to her too – there is something she must remember about him, a promise he made to her. Then it clicks. He is coming to save her, just like she saves him. His Clara. Her Doctor._

He looks over at her. "You're going to have to leave, Angie. I can't really control the energy exactly, and it may just go to the closest living thing. And that has to be Clara. Go back to the house. Eat some pizza, it's nice and fresh from 1992," he instructs.  
She just nods, turns around and leaves the TARDIS as quick as possibly. A couple of lights flash in the Console Room as she passes through it, and the ship whirs, as if warning her to hurry up.  
Angie dashes back into the house, ignores the pizza, and sits there and waits while the Doctor gives Clara the days of his future.

_Golden light blares through the room. It physically feels to the Doctor like his own skin is being pulled off him with one great tug, as if the very years of his future to come are tangibly bonded to him.  
He screams a bit, though he can't hear himself over the sound of the rushing energy, the snapping and shrieking of time itself being rent from one being and given to another.  
And just for a moment, in one heartbeat that he and Clara share, all the world is made of gold. The glass case around Clara fractures, shattering into a hundred million pieces, as the days are passed on from the Doctor to his impossible girl._

Clara gasps and open her eyes. She keeps breathing hard, as if she has been without air for a very long time. She feels incredibly hungry, as if her own stomach is trying to eat itself. Clara sits up, revelling in the ability to do so, when only hours before she could hardly move her head.  
After a moment, she realises she is in a bed that is not her own, and as the disorientation slowly dissipates, she realises she's in a glass tank. The panels of clear glass are mostly shattered, though still hold their form; the fractures in the surface distort her view of the room she is contained in, so she can only see rough hues and blurs of colours. So Clara grabs the small chair that sits beside the cot on which she was lying and uses it to smash through the glass, keeping her face down as the glass fragments and tumbles, bringing the other walls of the tank down with it.  
She dusts the glass off herself, glancing up.  
The Doctor is lying, still, on the floor a few feet away.  
"Doctor," Clara calls, scrambling over to him, slipping a little in the glass, as a shard flicks up and slices her shin.  
She ignores it, racing over to the unmoving Timelord. Clara falls to her knees beside him, taking his pale, oddly peaceful-looking face in her hands.  
"Oi," she mutters. "Wake up, mister."  
He does not move. Since she's not really sure exactly _what's _wrong with him, she has no idea how to fix him.  
Several possible action plans run through Clara's mind. She could try CPR, possibly, but did that even work on Timelords? Maybe not. But Clara isn't the type to simply sit and wait for things to happen, so she figures CPR was probably her best bet.  
While the idea makes her nervous, she plants her palms firmly on his chest, to the left side. Summing up as much force as she can, despite still being a little dizzy and disoriented, Clara forces her hands downward with as much strength as she has available. She does this a couple more times before swapping to the other side of his chest.  
She only hesitates for a second before drawing in a deep breath of air and placing her lips on the Doctor's to pass the oxygen on to him.  
As Clara pulls away, unsure if this plan is going to work at all, the Doctor takes a gasp of air and rolls over, coughing.  
She gently tugs the strands of his dark hair away from his face as his eyes flicker open.  
"Hey," she whispers, relieved he's awake. Clara hadn't actually devoted any thought to what she _would _do if he _didn't _wake - the idea was so painfully unthinkable; she did, however, feel the worry the unacknowledged possibility had subconsciously brought drift away as he gazed up at her.  
"Clara?" he murmurs back. "You're awake? You're fine?"  
Clara quirks an eyebrow at him. "I may be wrong, Chin Boy, but I believe it is correct practice for the person who has _performed _CPR to ask that of the patient, rather than the other way around," she tells him.  
The Doctor sits, propping himself up on his hands, and looking steadily at her. "Well, I wouldn't have needed CPR in the first place," he says, "if I hadn't been trying to save you."  
Clara's eyebrow climbs even higher. "Oh? And you thought the best way to help me out of the Echo stream or whatever was going on – I don't quite remember – would be to _pass out_?"  
The Oncoming Storm, in all his majesty, rolls his eyes, before proceeding to explain exactlywhat he _had _been doing.  
By the time he's finished his brief description, Clara's eyebrow has gone from an uncannily judgmental angle somewhere on her mid-forehead to a knitted frown.  
"You idiot," she tells him, out of concern as opposed to doubts of his sanity. "That is _your life_; you can't go giving it to _me._ All those worlds out there, all those people – you can save them. I'm just – I'm not even – _you idiot,_" she summarises.  
The Doctor frowns back. "Exactly, it's _my life - _I can do what I want. And I want people I love to spend it with. If that means shortening a few thousand years by a couple of decades, then so be it. It's just like an organ donation, Clara – it doesn't cause any real damage to me, and it helps you. I'm old, and I think sometimes you forget that. Besides, I owe you one, Clara Oswald."  
She smiles a little sadly at him, sinking on her knees to rest on her heels. Clara dislikes getting sentimental about anything, however. So she simply picks the conversation back up to a place she's comfortable with: "You only owe me one? Only _one, _Doctor? More than one, I should think. Let's see, I found the location of the Wi-Fi people on the day we met, I saved your hide at Akhaten, I rescued you in the TARDIS at Caliburn House, not to mention how I put up with your atrocious mood swings when you were a Cyberman."  
The Doctor smiles back at Clara, before leaning forward and pulling her tightly into a hug. "Yes, Clara, definitely more than one."  
She hugs him back, and seeing as neither of them really wants to let go, they don't. They just stay there for a while, her kneeling, him sitting on the floor of the TARDIS's medical bay, glad for once that neither of them is dying or captured or fading away. Like they believe that if they hold on long enough and tight enough, they can actually keep each other safe.  
That was the one truth, the one rule, to hang onto, in the whole of the universe, the Doctor well knew.  
_Hold on tight, and don't let go.  
_After what seems to the Doctor to be a wonderfully long time, Clara pulls away. He looks at her happily for a moment, kisses her on the forehead and mutters, "Clara Oswald, you are brilliant."  
"I know," she tells him, smirking.  
Apparently completely recovered, the Doctor jumps up, grabbing Clara by the hand and pulling her up to join him.  
"Pizza!" he says happily. "Time for some absolutely very tasty pizza which I only bought about twenty years ago, so it should still be warm."

"Angie!" Clara calls as she wanders back inside, tugging the Doctor along by the hand. "Angie, you better have saved me some food, because I don't think I've ever been more hungry, ever -"  
"Because the St-A-Biliser burned up all your energy, I know, I know," comes the reply from deeper within the house.  
The Doctor and Clara wander into the kitchen, grabbing slices of New York pizza as they walk past where Angie's left the box.  
Angie's leaning on the counter, flicking through a magazine. "How'd it go? Neither of you died, obviously?" She tries her best to sound relatively neutral, but inside she is silently screaming with thankfulness. _Clara's ok. The Doctor's ok. Nobody else is going to get hurt. No more loss is going to hurt _me_. _  
"Nope, nobody's dying," the Doctor confirms, shaking his head doggedly. "Well, actually, no, that was a lie… quite a few people are dying, somewhere out there in time and space -" The Timelord shuts up, however, when Clara very subtly stands on his foot.  
"Right," he mutters. "Pizza."  
After they eat, the Doctor produces a copy of the 3042 remake of 'Star Wars' from one of his voluminous pockets (he claims they are, like his TARDIS, bigger on the inside). Apparently this version of the interspace movie saga was filmed as a live documentary, and is, according to the Doctor, a lot more interesting.  
Clara wouldn't _really _have pinned the Doctor as the type to be able to sit still long enough to get through an entire film, but then again, perhaps the transfer of life energies has really drained him. Clara herself in unsure as to how she is reacting to the process herself – half the time she is absolutely bursting with strength, and the rest she is completely worn out.  
As he reconfigures the Maitland's DVD player to allow it to play the 3042 disc, the Doctor jabbers away about how much of a phenomenon the movie they are about to watch _is, _as that far in the future it is very hard to find ordinary films at all. Apparently, humans use technology to actually _experience_ a plotline or series of events by way of entertainment, as opposed observing others do so, as is the tradition now.  
Angie only sits through the first ten minutes: the film may be from the future, but it's still _Star Wars. _Seriously. Artie would have probably have hyperventilated from excitement by now, as he was a massive fan of the American franchise, but Angie could never see much in them: they were too cheesy, too techy… Artie got cross at her every time she tried to justify her inability to watch them, however. Shortly after the end of the titles sequence, she gets up, grabs the home phone and tells Clara and the Doctor, "I'm going to call Nina." They just glance at her and nod, so she shrugs and wanders up the stairs.

The temperature drops steadily over the next half an hour, the room gradually becoming uncomfortably cold. It doesn't seem to bother the Doctor - perhaps Timelords are relatively temperature impervious, or perhaps it just doesn't bother them as much as humans.  
Clara can't be bothered to go and get a jacket, however, as she's too busy watching the film, so she just curls up against the Doctor, resting her head on his shoulder gently. Almost reflexively, the Doctor wraps an arm around her, pulling her in close.  
And while Doctor has all of time to visit for many years to come, he knows that if he ever had the chance to visit any moment again, this would be it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 4**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

When Clara rolls over, she checks her watch, and realises what day it is. _That day. _She'd almost forgotten about it in the blur of yesterday's events – dying and whatnot. Well, mostly the blurry bit had been watching that film, snuggled up to the Doctor, but everything else had been pretty dizzying too.  
But this particular date has rolled around again, as it inevitably does every year, to plague her with nightmarish memories.  
Clara is pulled from her thoughts by a slight crashing noise that echoes up from downstairs, probably the kitchen. She frowns. It's only six thirty, and given it's a long weekend, Angie will try to avoid being _awake_ for another two hours, let along upright.  
She sits up slowly, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Clara quickly drags her hand through her hair and loosely ties it back, still a touch sleepy and slightly disoriented.  
Without bothering to change out of her pyjamas, Clara clumps downstairs. Artie and George won't be back until this afternoon or tomorrow morning, depending on how the business trips goes, so Angie has obviously, for some miracle motivation of her own, decided to get up early.  
She wanders into the kitchen, and to her surprise, sees the Doctor in there, flipping pancakes with oddly practiced expertise for such an exceptionally unco-ordinated person.  
"Hello?" she says, taking a step back, suddenly slightly more aware that she _is _still her shorts and baggy t-shirt as opposed to actual clothes. She probably should have got changed before she came down. As a precaution. Not that that occurred at before seven in the morning.  
He whips around. "Morning, Clara! It's Wednesday, just as I promised! Ready to go places?" the Doctor asks. "I'm making pancakes," he adds, rather unnecessarily.  
Clara smiles a little weakly at him. "It's not Wednesday, silly. It's only Monday, exactly one day after you left. I swear that Snogbox of yours is getting lazy."  
"Oi," the Doctor mutters, though he doesn't look as if he minds at all. "Oh, well, so what if it's only been a day? There's no intergalactic law preventing Clara Oswald from going travelling on Mondays," he tells her seriously, flipping a pancake on the stove beside him without breaking eye contact with her. She wonders vaguely how many hours he had to spend practicing that without looking to hone it down to such a fine art.  
"I'm looking after Angie today," Clara reminds him. "George and Artie still aren't back."  
The Doctor shrugs. "She can come too if she likes."  
Clara frowns. "But, today…" she begins, before she is interrupted by Angie stomping down the stairs. "Morning," the girl mutters sleepily. "You're very noisy." She heads over to the table and slumps into one of the chairs, folding her arms on the bench's surface and resting her head on her jumper sleeves.  
"But what?" the Doctor continues, frowning some more. "Why can't we go somewhere today? Don't tell me there _actually is _a law preventing Clara Oswald from time and space travel on Mondays?"  
Clara shakes her head, not really sure how to respond, before Angie replies on her behalf. "Can't go anywhere with Clara today, Doctor," she tells him. "It's the 5th of March."  
The Doctor thinks for a second. The date sounds familiar, though he can't determine why. What happened on the 5th of March that could possibly affect Clara?  
He's about to ask when he sees Clara turn, take a deep breath, and just walk back up the stairs.  
Once she's gone, the Doctor turns to Angie for an explanation. "What's going on?" he asks.  
Angie looks back at him like it's blaringly obvious. "_5__th__ of March_," she repeats.  
He gazes unblinkingly back at her, still flipping pancakes. "So?"  
Angie frowns at him. "I thought you knew everything about her, you're her boyfriend after all…"  
The Doctor nods, "Yes, but… _wait_… That was supposed to be _no, but_… was it? I'm…" he trails off, almost withering under Angie's smirk.  
He gives up. "Will you please just tell me? She didn't look happy."  
"Of course she didn't look happy," the teen explained. "It was exactly eight years ago today that her mum died."  
"Ah," the Doctor muttered. He now knew why the name rang a bell – he'd seen it on Ellie Oswald's grave when he'd been… _keeping an eye _on Clara's past. "So what do we do?"  
Angie shrugs again. "What can we do? We just take her to her mother's grave a few blocks away and go wait in the park for a while so she can… _talk _to her mum for a bit, I suppose. Isn't that what everyone does?"  
The Doctor shakes his head. "Not me. I don't visit graves. Graves are final… graves are for the very, very end. Graves are a great, big, statement to a person's death. They literally set it in stone. And graves for time travellers… they are very, very bad."  
Angie watches him for a moment. "Have you seen our graves, then? Mine or Artie's, somewhere out there in the ground in a hundred years? Or Clara's grave?"  
_Remember Me For We Shall Meet Again._  
He shrugs uncomfortably. "Almost… In a way… of sorts… Not really…"  
Angie just nods. "Well, the cemetery is a little way from here – we'll have to take her in your TARDIS. Or maybe she'll walk – she does that, sometimes, on the odd year. She'll just get up in the middle of breakfast and start walking."  
The Doctor frowns. "Does Clara only visit her mum's grave once a year?"  
Angie shakes her head. "Of course not. She just passes by, sometimes, but never really stays long. Isn't that what we all do?"  
The Doctor bows his head. "Not me. Like I said, I try to stay away from graves."  
Angie nods again. "Well, today is the only day Clara lets herself get really, properly sad about her mum."  
What shadows of eyebrows the Doctor has rise. "She only allows herself to mourn once a year?"  
Angie shrugs. "That's how Clara is, though, isn't she? She likes to lock everything away, and just be sort of… fiery on the outside. But once in a while she has to let the outside bit fall away, stop helping everyone else, and just be sad for her mum. It works quite well for her, it would seem."  
The Doctor frowns, a memory striking him: _… and more scared than she lets on. _Perhaps not necessarily afraid of the future, but of what has already come to pass. He's seen Clara get sad about her mum three times before: once, when he watched her at Ellie Oswald's funeral; again, at Akhaten; and once here, when Angie too had been upset.  
He makes a split second decision, throws caution to the winds and follows Clara upstairs, leaving Angie alone and tired at the kitchen table.  
The Doctor just walks into Clara's room without knocking. His Impossible Girl is standing beside her window, looking out onto the street, unmoving.  
After another moments' hesitation, the Doctor walks forward and wraps his arms around her from behind, a kind-of, sort-of hug. A second passes before Clara leans back into him, her head nestled into his shoulder, still gazing out into the grey London sky. Another moment and she turns around into him, making it a proper hug.  
"I miss her," Clara murmurs eventually into the fabric of him shirt.  
"I know," the Doctor replies, stroking her hair.  
"Can you – can you and the TARDIS…" is as far as she gets before the Doctor hugs her even tighter and mutters a quick _yes. _

Ten minutes later, Clara is kneeling beside the grave of Ellie Oswald. To give her space, the Doctor and the TARDIS are behind the same tree they were eight years ago, waiting for however long it takes for the Impossible Girl to finish.  
Clara reaches out and gently touches the stone engraved with the name of her mother.  
"Hey, mum," she whispers sadly. "I'm good – so is Dad. Or at least, we're as good as we've ever got since you've been gone. My life was pretty much exactly the same as last year, until around three months ago. You should see Angie and Artie, now: they've grown so tall. Artie, you wouldn't believe, is nearly as tall as I am, and nothing like the little baby you knew him as. He loves Amelia Williams' books, just like I did, and he still likes trains. Angie is different, too. She's quieter, I suppose, though she rather does seem to enjoy talking about me and the…" she trails off for a moment. Of course her Mum can't hear her, and Clara knows that. But the effect of chatting to the grave is rather soothing, similar to having an imaginary friend. It's her way to letting her Mum know, wherever she may be, that her daughter, Clara Oswald, has not forgotten about her and never will. "I'm travelling, now, Mum, too. Just like the book we used to read. I've still got that, by the way, but not the leaf anymore. I had to give that up to save a friend. A lot of friends, actually. An entire system. I met this man, mum, called the Doctor – he's over a thousand but he still looks young; he's very kind and very sad and oddly happy and playful when he wants to be. Like someone has taken a hundred different ages and temperaments and folded them all into one. And I love it…. And I think… I love…" is as far as she gets before she feels a tap on her shoulder, making Clara jump.  
"Clara – are you ok?" the Doctor asks, looking concerned and crouching down beside her, gripping her shoulder lightly.  
She nods slowly. "I'm fine, Doctor. Been better, obviously."  
He wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her upright, more carrying her than Clara actually complying. Then he hands her a bouquet of truly beautiful flowers that she's fairly sure aren't from Earth, and she places them on her Mum's grave.  
The Doctor hugs her while she cries into his chest for a while, before he turns her round and cups her face in his hand, gently brushing her tears away. Then he goes back to the tree, leaving Clara to say goodbye to her mother alone.  
After five more minutes, Clara quietly returns to the TARDIS, and just before the Doctor follows her back inside, he glances back at the grave. Sometimes he forgets, he thinks, how strange time travel can really be – just months ago, he was being apologised to by this woman on the behalf of her daughter, with whom he travels with twenty years later by the then-child's life time. There, in the ground, sits a stone plaque in commemoration of Ellie Oswald, who he met not a hundred days ago, and who has now been dead for over eight years.

He takes Clara to the planet he got the flowers from, after that. A great, big world in the sky covered entirely in extraordinary fauna, with only a few settlements of the Human Empire dotted sparsely across the surface. The Doctor takes Clara by the hand and shows her all the plants and trees that surround them, as well as the occasional animal, telling her their names and their more interesting properties. Clara, of course, is far more subdued than usual, and he doesn't manage to get a laugh out her the entire time – the odd weak smile, but not even a light chuckle or smirk at his inability to successfully co-ordinate his feet.  
They return home at about two thirty, to find Angie doing her history assignment. As Clara goes upstairs, the Doctor volunteers to help with the school work, talking to her about the armies of Genghis Khan and their battle formations, as well as one of their attempts to break into the TARDIS. Angie has to admit, history is far more interesting when the Doctor tells it with added first-hand experience, but his mind definitely seems elsewhere.  
As the Doctor is halfway through a recount of rescuing a Silurian from the strategy tent of the famous General himself, the phone rings, and Angie goes to pick it up.  
"Hi," Artie's voice mutters from the other end of the line. "We're coming home early; we should be back in about ten minutes. Is Clara ok, or do you need me to try something to keep Dad away?"  
Angie ponders the options for a moment, before realising Artie still must think that Clara is very ill and in the Echo stream, as she hasn't told him otherwise. "Oh," she says quickly, "No, Clara's fine. The Doctor fixed the Echo thing,"  
"I know," Artie tells her. "He called from his TARDIS and told me so I wouldn't worry. He seemed to know you told me. No, I was wondering more because it's… you know… March 5th…"  
"No, come on through, it's ok. The Doctor will probably be gone before you get here, though, he never seems to run into Dad, though I'm not sure if that's by design or accident," Angie observes, before chatting to her brother a few moments longer and hanging up.  
She then turns to the Doctor. "Artie and Dad are going to be here very soon," she says. "Are you going to go?"  
The Timelord shrugs. "I guess not. I think I'll take Clara out later, try to cheer her up a bit – maybe just out to see some of the brighter stars."  
Angie is caught halfway between a smile and a slight frown. "It's funny how you can but a 'maybe just' in front of a wonder most people will never see in their entire lives."  
The Doctor shakes his head hurriedly, however. "No, no, there is nothing less than marvellous about stars. But perhaps when you see something even more wonderful by a hundred million times, they fall a little into shadow."  
Angie raises any eyebrow. The Doctor wonders if it's a trait she's picked up from Clara over the years, that sceptical look. "What could be more wonderful than stars a billion trillion miles away that you can see right up close?"  
"Cl-" the Doctor begins, before realising he's thinking out loud. "_Clocks_!" he quickly retreats. "I just love a good clock. Such a clever invention – so typical of humanity: taking the untameable, unimaginable force of time, giving it a name and creating a method of predicting its movements. Ooh, and _cleverness _– that's another 'Cl' word I could have meant," he mutters, before again realising his thoughts have escaped out his mouth again. "Cleverness is very useful," he adds lamely.  
Angie has the sort of smirk that only a vindicated adolescent can truly pull off. "Nice save," she tells him, as his shoulders sag a bit, his cover blown.  
"Hey! I thought it wasn't bad," he mutters in a slightly hurt voice.  
Angie smirk just increases in potency. "You realise if you stick around you'll have to meet my Dad? And get his approval for Clara?"  
The Doctor frowns in confusion. "But Clara already has his approval," he says. "Otherwise he wouldn't let her babysit you. How could anyone not approve of Clara?"  
Angie rolls her eyes. "No, you'll have to get his approval to date Clara. That's how it works."  
"I am _not dating Clara_," he assures her half-heartedly.  
"What's a date, Doctor?"  
"Where two people go places and hold hands," he clarifies.  
"And what do you and Clara do?"  
"Go places and hold hands," he confirms, hanging his head slightly in defeat.  
That's when both of them realise that Clara Oswald herself is standing on the stairs watching them, a small smile on her face, and neither of them knows how long she's been there.  
As she slowly walks over, both Angie and the Doctor tense ever so slightly, wondering if there's any kind of danger that Clara may be cross.  
However, at that moment, the door swings open and Artie sticks his head in. "Oh, hello Doctor, I didn't think you'd be here," he says, before disappearing back outside. And all of them hear quite clearly the ten year old shout, "_Dad! Dad! Clara's boyfriend's still here…_"  
Clara smirks again slightly, before quickly kissing the Doctor on the top of the head. "Good luck getting out of this one, mate," she mutters, before continuing out into


	10. Chapter 10

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 10**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

Clara notes that while normally Mr Maitland takes a very long while to come from the car to the house, as he likes to pack all his things, he manages to appear unusually quickly after Artie notifies him of their guest.  
The father and the son join Clara, Angie and the Doctor in the living room, and there is silence for a moment, before Artie runs over to his sister and gives her a quick hug. Clara smiles at the two of them; they seem a lot closer than they used to be, now bonded by a secret. She only has a moment to think this before Artie is hugging her, too, perhaps a little tighter than normal: she remembers Angie telling her yesterday how upset he'd been at news of Clara being in danger. Finally, Artie gives the Doctor one of those weird high-five-secret-handshake things that they've developed, before the four of them all turn to face George Maitland.  
He's caught halfway between a small smile and an appraising expression: clearly his children know this man a little better than he'd realised.  
"I'm George Maitland," the (sort of, not really) older man introduces himself, holding a hand out to the Doctor. For a millisecond, the Doctor just stares at the proffered hand, before realising he's supposed to shake it.  
"Right. Yes, of course. I'm John Smith, but everyone calls me the Doctor. Not sure why, though I call me the Doctor too," he says.  
"The children tell me you are quite a useful person to have around the house. Apparently, you fixed the washing machine, clothes line, dishwasher, microwave and stove. I'm pretty sure at least two of them weren't even broken," George chuckles.  
The Doctor shrugs. "The stove wasn't when I started with it, but it works very well now. And the microwave functions much better than it used to."  
"Are you a handy-man of sorts, then?"  
"No, I travel around, mostly. Helping people. It's an interesting job," the Doctor half-lies. It's certainly interesting, he does manage to do a lot of helping and most definitely travels, but it's not really a job. More of a… pastime. No, it probably is a job – hardly 5 till 9, but all the same.  
"I work in IT," George Maitland says. "Though lately my computer skills have been falling a little short – Artie and I came home early because my computer appears to have displaced most of its data and programmes."  
The Doctor frowns. "Have you tried a Meta-Beta Reboot?"  
"No. I've never heard of that," Mr Maitland says curiously.  
"I shouldn't think so, it's only in development now," the Doctor covers quickly. Clara smiles as she realises that 'in development' means 'it'll be invented in a few years or so'.  
"How does it work?"  
The Doctor then proceeds to briefly summarise the theory behind the mysterious 'Meta-Beta Reboot', finishing with, "Would you like me to try and recover your data?"  
Mr Maitland waves the Doctor into his study, with Angie whispering a quick, sarcastic, "_Good luck,_" to the Timelord as he follows the older-looking though much, much younger man.  
When they are gone, Clara goes back to her soufflé. She looks up in time to see Artie ticking something off in his notebook, Angie watching over his shoulder. They talk quietly.  
"Watcha doing?" Clara asks, bringing over a mixing spoon so Artie or Angie can eat the sweet pastry mixture off it (whoever gets to it first: though neither of the children have told Clara, they have agreed that while she can't _bake _a soufflé to save her life, the actual mix itself is really very tasty.  
"Nothing," Artie says hurriedly, going to put the small book back in his pocket. Clara is too fast for him, though, and quickly snatches the notepad from his small hand, exchanging it for the mixing spoon. Normally, she wouldn't pry, but she has a sneaking suspicion that it's something to do with her or the Doctor.  
Defeated, though not put out, Artie happily accepts the mixing spoon, licking off the soufflé batter.  
Clara flicks open the notebook, and sees a serious of checkboxes written in a mix of Artie and Angie's handwritings, as if they had each contributed a few lines. The steps listed were as follows:

_Definitely? _| |  
_Convince Doctor _| |  
_Convince Dad _| |  
_Convince Clara _| |

The first two boxes were boldly ticked, as if they were required items found at the super market.  
"What's this, then?" Clara asks the children, eyeing them carefully for signs of lying. "Is this to get us to take you to the cinema? Or Mars, or what?"  
"Nope," Artie tells her, shaking his head vigorously. "Not for travelling."  
"For what then?" she says, unable to think of what else the two might be planning other than another adventure. Or at least, something they would try to plan quietly.  
"Nothing," Angie replies calmly, taking the notebook back off Clara and pocketing it herself. "You'll find out eventually."  
Clara can see that it is most definitely not 'nothing', but the Maitland siblings can be extraordinarily stubborn and tight-lipped when they wished to be – the fact their father still didn't know of their trip in the TARDIS was testimony to this fact.  
"I'll just ask the Doctor, then," Clara decides aloud. "It says on that notepad that you've already enlisted him, and he doesn't keep much from me, much less things that _actually _involve me."  
Angie smirks. "He is something of a 'reluctant' participant, you might say."  
Artie shakes his head, however. "Not really 'reluctant', as such. More… well, firstly, 'unaware' and then 'quiet' is probably more right."  
Angie concedes his point with a nod and a shrug of her shoulders.  
"Well, then," Clara says, "I shall have to find out through some _other _method."  
Angie's smirk widens. "You're already in on it. In a way. We just need to be _absolutely _sure."  
Clara narrows her eyes at the children, half-joking, half-deadly-curious as to what they could possibly be up to.  
When Clara turns to place her soufflé in the oven, Angie and Artie smile knowingly at each other and share a very, very quiet high five.

Almost an hour later, the Doctor and Mr Maitland re-emerge from the latter's study, chatting amiably.  
Remarkably, and possibly because the Doctor had 'upgraded' the oven with his screwdriver, Clara's soufflé actually works out.  
She doles out a few portions into several plates, giving one each to the children (after about five minutes of pleading, she also lets Artie and Angie have a small amount of ice cream with theirs).  
As Mr Maitland accepts some chocolate soufflé from Clara, the Doctor asks her, "You wanted me to take a look at the hose fixture in the garden, didn't you, Clara?"  
Clara nods as she remembers the difficulty she had a few days ago getting it to work. "Yes, please. It's round the back, I'll show you."  
She takes his offered hand and leads him out the back door, into the small yard.  
When they are gone, George says to his children. "Yes, I see what you mean. That man has a strangely extensive yet oddly limited vocabulary: half the time he was garbling words I don't even have an inkling about, and yet every tenth word seemed to be '_Clara_'_._"  
The siblings nod quietly. Seamlessly, Angie quickly whips the notebook out of her jacket, Artie hands her a pen, and she checks off the third box.  
"What's that?" their father asks.  
"Just a project…" Angie says.  
"About?" George prompts.  
"Did the Doctor show you his scanner?" Artie quickly swerves the conversation away from the topic. "Oh yes," their father says. "It's very clever, it uses binary coding and Wi-Fi to access internet databases, he said."  
"Yeah, that's how it works," Angie mutters vaguely, fully aware that it is highly alien technology and functions nothing like her Dad has described. The Doctor clearly did a good job of making enough technical jargon to convince Mr Maitland that it is simply a geeky tool.  
As his father heads off to the bathroom, Artie mutters to his sister, "One box to go!"  
"The hardest one," Angie reminds him.  
"Clara _is _very stubborn. But I've got a plan," he assures his sister.  
"Oh really?"  
"Yes. And it's a very, very good one."

Two days later, they put this idea into effect – even Angie has to concede it's not bad, even if Artie did think of it. _  
_Artie has footy training on Wednesday afternoons, so Angie is actually home before he is. Clara is in the kitchen and the Doctor is still here, as she'd predicted.  
Angie's as quiet as humanely possible for her; she walks into the living room more silently than she's ever done. From what she can make out, the Doctor is trying to teach Clara to make a Jammy Dodger soufflé by helping her make it. Angie's pretty sure that Clara knows how to mix batter fairly well, and the Doctor is probably aware of it too, so everyone knows it's totally unnecessary for the Timelord to _actually _have his hand wrapped around Clara's (which is in turn holding the wooden spoon) and assisting her to mix it. He's also, Angie figures, standing about 108% closer behind her than strictly required; they're practically occupying the same space. While physics denies this being properly possible, they seem to be doing a pretty good job as they stand there, talking quietly.  
Angie waits a few minutes, watching with a satisfied smirk on her face: she's not exactly inconspicuous; by themselves, either the Doctor or Clara would most definitely have noticed her. But, of course, other, far more interesting things are happening right now that seem to have limited both their attention spans.  
After a few more minutes, Angie finally feels vindicated enough, she says a quiet, "Hey, Clara. Hi Doctor."  
Both of them jump quite considerably, so Angie turns to fiddle with her schoolbag and pretends to have just arrived and not really noticed them, to save them unnecessary embarrassment.  
Apparently, they fall for her pretence of having just arrived, despite the fact that Angie has already managed to take off her shoes and remove her jumper, having been home for over five minutes.  
"Good day?" she asks the two, who are now standing at least a foot away from each other: not far, but a whole thirty centimetres more than before. That's as far apart as they seem to be able to get, nowadays.  
"Yes," Clara says, smiling (slightly uncertainly) at the teen.  
"We went to the Ice Rinks on _Kal-e-kello 5454_," the Doctor tells her, spinning quickly and in an unusually co-ordinated fashion to place the soufflé in the oven.  
"We should go there again, sometime," Clara decides. "It was fun. It was this ocean, Angie," she adds, "which had frozen in an instant, and preserved everything inside. We went skating on a reef which had glowing coral, and you could see all the fish – the ice was almost like a window, and the snow melted when it hit the ice. Don't know why,"  
The Doctor could probably tell her exactly why, but instead chooses to say, "What? You want to go somewhere twice?"  
Clara nods. "Why? Do you not usually ever go places more than once?"  
"I'm not a _big _re-visitor, I mean, there's the whole universe out there-" the Doctor begins, before Angie interrupts.  
"Whole universe?" she says. "You do so revisit places – I mean, you're practically a fixture here, not just Wednesdays, anymore – you were here _yesterday… _pretty much most days this week, actually…"  
The two adults are saved from explaining by the front door opening. "I'm home!" Artie calls (one of his friend's dads drops him back after training). This is followed by an inexplicable thud and a loud _"OW!"_.  
Clara and the Doctor turn to each other at exactly the same time. Clara raises an eyebrow, and the Doctor nods, before quickly disappearing out into the hallway to find out what's happened to Artie. Angie is distinctly reminded of her parents doing a very similar thing when she was little, a sort of silent exchange: _"Who's going to get the kid?" – "You can." – "Why me?" – "I'm pretty and you like me. Now get the kid." – "Ok.". _The wordless conversation was pretty much exactly that between her nanny and the Timelord.  
A few moments later, Artie and the Doctor reappear, the former complaining (just as planned) about his school project. "… and we have to dance," the ten year old tells the Timelord. "With _girls._"  
The Doctor shrugs, setting down the child's school bag which he had been carrying for him. "That's not so bad. At least you're not dancing with Slitheen. Or Weeping Angels. Things could be a lot worse."  
Artie shakes head. "But I can't _dance_. I'm rubbish."  
"It's like football," the Doctor explains. "You just have to put your feet in the right place."  
Artie sighs. "But I need to practice. I don't want to stuff it up when we get marked on it – that wouldn't be fair to my friend, the girl I have to dance with."  
"What dance are you doing?"  
Angie butts in with the name of the dance – Artie had told her of his dilemma the other day, and she had been largely unhelpful.  
"Oh, I know that one," the Doctor says. "I was there when they made it up. It took a while. Victorian people are quite good at dancing, but equally fond of resting and chatting. Nothing gets done."  
"How am I supposed to practice, though?" Artie mutters grumpily. "I can only just remember the first few steps. And Angie can't help, she doesn't know it either, and she's too busy with her homework."  
"Does Clara know it?" The Timelord asks, directing it to both Clara and the youngest Maitland child.  
"No," Clara says. "Never heard of it. I wasn't much of a dancer at school – I never had the time, or the skills. Nor did I care."  
The Doctor shrugs. "Well, I can try and teach you," he suggests to Artie.  
Artie shakes his head vigorously. "But we're both boys, and it's a boy-girl dance," he clarifies, as if this were an impassable obstacle – it has obviously not occurred to him that simply because the dance was designed for one of each gender, the participants will not be struck down by lightening if they are both male. "And you're too tall," Artie adds. "I have to look up almost straight up just to see your _chin_."  
"Well I really don't see how else-" the Doctor begins before Angie cuts him off.  
"Why don't _you _teach _Clara _and then _she _can teach _Artie_?" the girl suggests.  
Both children expect the adults to say something along the lines of 'too tedious' and 'time consuming' and 'there must be a quicker way'. But they simply shrug, with Clara adding, "I'm a fast learner, I should have this done in ten minutes,"  
"Ok," the Doctor agrees, without any of the anticipated reluctance.  
Clara dusts off her hands on a tea towel, and walks over. The Doctor pulls out his Sonic and zaps it at the stereo. A faint buzz, a green glow and a whir later, the music player emits a soft tune.  
"That's the right one," Artie nods.  
After a slight second's awkward hesitation, Clara and the Doctor assume the waltz position: his hand on her waist, her hand on his shoulder, their other hands grasped together gently but tightly.  
Slowly, the Doctor begins to talk her through the steps. Angie only catches quick snatches, such as, "That's very good, Clara. Yes, now back… Now you step forward, yes… And I spin you… That was supposed to be the other way, but oh well, my fault…"  
Artie and Angie stand together in the kitchen while Clara and the Doctor dance in the sitting room. The younger boy tugs at his sister's sleeve. "We don't dance that close together at school," he tells her.  
Angie smirks. "I don't think _anyone _dances that close together."  
They watch for a few more minutes as Clara and the Doctor slowly get better and more fluid, until the former is able to look away from her feet and up at the Doctor.  
"Soufflé is burning," Artie mutters quietly.  
Angie glances up at the oven, which is complaining quietly and emitting small puffs of black smoke. "Uh," she says. "Clara? Doctor? Your soufflé is burning."  
Apparently, they are in some kind of bubble and can't see or hear anything else.  
It would seem, Angie thinks, that she and Artie have accidentally on purpose set up a date which is going a little better than planned.  
"We should probably rescue the oven and the soufflé, they're out of it," Angie decides. Together, the two siblings turn off and pry open the oven. Angie removes the charred mess of a soufflé using oven mitts and Artie opens the window to let the smoke out as she sets in on the table.  
"Your soufflé is very burnt, Clara," Artie calls, reasonably loudly.  
They get no response. "They're really very good dancers," Angie observes.  
"They are, yeah," Artie agrees.  
"No, I mean – Clara's normally a very quick learner, but she would have had to learn that _really _fast to be able to dance _and _focus on something else entirely only ten minutes later," Angie tells him.  
"Huh?"  
"Never mind; want to go upstairs and watch some TV?"  
"But… Clara's going to teach me to dance…" Artie reminds her.  
Angie shakes her head. "_Oh, _no, she's not. Too bad for you. The plan worked quite well, though."  
She takes his hand and drags him upstairs. She flicks on her laptop in her room and sets Artie in front of it, putting on one of those shows he watches, and does her maths homework in the corner. All the while, the music does not stop downstairs.

Nearly half an hour later, Clara calls upstairs, "_Oi._ You two shouldn't take burning things out of the oven by yourselves. You need to ask me to do it," she says, walking in to Angie's room. The teen looks up, hearing the Doctor moving around downstairs.  
"We did," she explains.  
Clara shakes her head. "You need to ask louder; I can't hear you over the music."  
Even Artie takes out his headphones and turns to her. "_We did. _Besides, we got that soufflé out nearly half an hour ago."  
Clara frowns at him. "It hasn't been that long."  
"He's halfway through the second episode of that show," Angie points out. "You've been dancing for _ages._"  
Clara shrugs slightly in acknowledgment. "Yeah, I guess. Well, sometimes I can be a bit slow at picking things up."  
_Yes, _Angie agrees. _Very slow at picking things up. But not skills, Clara. Thoughts, perhaps. Especially blaringly obvious Timelord thoughts that Artie, the second most obtuse person in the world, has been able to see for months._


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 11**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

As Artie quite liked pointing out at least four times a week, he was in his school chess club. A truth that he found rather less favourable of noting was that he was at the _bottom_ of his school chess club: Angie had only found this out the other day,  
"I lose _everything_," he'd complained to her one day this week, while the Doctor and Clara were downstairs, probably fixing something (this was the Doctor's favourite excuse to stick around, Angie had discovered. Failing something requiring to be fixed, there was a chance he'd try to upgrade then accidentally break it, so he was never out of things to do).  
Angie, of course, being the 'wonderful person she was' (or that's what she'd told Artie, anyway) had offered to practice with him. It soon transpired, however, that the only person who was _worse _at chess than Artie Maitland was Angie herself.  
"So why don't you just quit the chess club?" Angie asks him after the third time he's beaten her, the slightly better of two damn atrocious players.  
Artie looks shocked. "You can't just _quit_ if it goes badly, Angie," he tells her.  
"Why not? That's what I did with my Business class," she replies casually.  
He shakes his head, however. "Clara and the Doctor didn't quit against the Cybermen," he reminds her.  
She shrugs. "We're not the Doctor and Clara," she says.  
"The Doctor and Clara!" Artie repeats happily, as if he's had a realization. "The _Doctor_ can teach me chess, he beat _even_ _Porridge_!"  
Angie nods doubtfully. "Well, hopefully it'll go a little further than his attempt to teach you dancing,"  
He looks up at her. "Yeah, that didn't go very far, did it?"  
"No, that was 'the Doctor teaches _Clara _to dance', not 'the Doctor teaches _Artie_ to dance'," she observes.  
So together they head downstairs in search of a proficient chess player, and find Clara and the Doctor in the kitchen. The former is holding the Sonic Screwdriver rather inexpertly and pointing it doubtfully at the oven. "No, not quite," the Doctor tells her calmly, "_that _button." He gently takes hold her hand and moves it onto the correct switch, and suddenly the tip of Screwdriver turns green and emits a low buzzing noise.  
"What's it doin', then?" Clara asks softly, staring at the device in her hand.  
"Absolutely nothing," he tells her, having still not removed his hand from being wrapped around hers. "But if I do _this_…" the Doctor mutters, carefully moving her thumb onto a small side button. The oven lights flick on.  
"Cool," Clara says happily.  
"Hey, Doctor, hey Clara," Angie calls at a reasonable volume, despite the fact they are only metres apart.  
"Yeah?" Clara asks vaguely, finishing fiddling the Sonic quickly before turning to the Maitlands, her hand still half in the Doctor's.  
Angie notes wryly that they don't jump anymore when she and Artie make an unexpected appearance.  
"What's up?" Clara says, walking over to them, and dragging the Doctor behind her.  
"I can't play chess," Artie tells her.  
"Ok," she replies, her eyebrows threatening to twitch with slight confusion and a twinge of sympathy – but Artie's not big on people feeling sorry for him, so she locks it out of her expression.  
"Can you teach me?"  
But Clara is already shaking her head. "I'd love to, Artie, I really would, but I honestly can't play chess to save my life. I can't even remember what the pieces are _called_."  
Artie hangs his head, and Clara ruffles his hair.  
"I, however," the Doctor interrupts, "am _absolutely brilliant _at chess, having been one of the people who invented it. Come on," he rather reluctantly lets go of Clara's hand and instead grabs Artie's, tugging the child to the table where Artie has left one of his two chessboards.  
Both Clara and Angie watch the boys set up, without saying anything.  
The younger girl turns and smiles to herself at the expression on the elder's face, before saying, "I bet you a fiver that the Doctor wins."  
Clara smiles at her over her shoulder as she grabs some flour out of the cupboard, preparing to make some cookies, having given up on soufflés for today. "Of course he's going to win, he's a thousand years old and Artie is _ten_."  
But Angie shakes her head, still smiling. "Bet's a bet, Clara, are you on?"  
Clara smirks. "Fine, Angie. I bet you a fiver that Artie will win. Happy?"  
"Yes. Shake on it," Angie reminds her.  
"Really?"  
"Yes, I did this with Artie last time, but apparently seeing as we 'didn't shake on it', the bet was discounted and he didn't owe me two pounds. Unfortunately, I Wiki-ed it, and he was right, the little weasel. Shake."  
Clara shrugs and complied with the teen's request, dusting her floury hands off on a tea towel beforehand.  
Immediately, Angie calls out, "Doctor, Artie likes to do that funny swap thing with his Rook,"  
This is followed by an indignant "_Hey!_" from both Artie and Clara.  
"Surely that comes under cheating, missy," Clara tells her.  
Angie shakes her head happily, however. "Team game, now."  
"Ok, then," Clara agrees, and the two girl sit down at the table with the others; Clara beside Artie, and Angie next to the Doctor. Not that he needs her help, obviously.  
"All right, then, Artie," the Doctor begins. "Do you want me to play you, or help you?"  
Artie thinks about it for a long moment, his mouth twisted up in a _hmm_.  
"Play me," he decides finally. "Then I can see what kinds of tricks you do so I can copy them at club."  
Angie then breaks in with a suggestion. "What if because the Doctor has been playing for a couple of hundred years and Artie has only been playing for a little while, the Doctor only gets thirty seconds to make a move, else he loses one of his pieces. That will make it challenging for the Doctor, but easier for Artie."  
Clara narrows her eyes at the teen, trying to work out where she's coming from. "That's hardly beneficial for you team," she says.  
Angie shrugs.  
"Wait, we're playing in teams?" the Doctor asks.  
"Yes," Clara tells him. "Angie and I have a bet on who will win. She bet you, so I bet Artie. And according to Angie, sabotage is allowed."  
Angie nods happily.  
The game begins. Artie makes a terrible move. In under five seconds, the Doctor takes his pawn. "I'm not going to go easy on you, Artie, because you'll never learn that way. The best way to learn is to come very, very close."  
Six moves in, Angie says, "Artie, I'll hide the TV remote if you win."  
"Hey!" Artie complains.  
"It's ok, Artie, she won't," Clara assures him, standing up. She gets up and moves around the table, placing her hands on the back of the Doctor's chair and resting her chin on the top of the Timelord's head.  
"Ten seconds to make your move, Doctor," she reminds him.

He probably _should _make the chess move, he thinks. Probably. But he's having quite a bit of trouble thinking of one to do right now, as he can literally _feel _Clara breathing behind him.  
She ruffles his hair, shifting slightly. "Five seconds, Chin,"  
_Stuff it, _he thinks, and just moves a random pawn, unable to find the computing power to focus on the chessboard rather than Clara.  
"Oh, yay, now I can do _this_," Artie says happily, moving his knight.  
_Damn. _He should have seen that coming. He shouldn't even have moved that pawn, it stuffed up his master plan.  
"That was _your _fault," he tells Clara, turning in his seat to face her.  
Her eyebrows crinkle in that sarcastic, curious, puzzled expression that he really, really loves. "_My _fault? How is it _my _fault? I was just watching. I even helped you by reminding you how much time you had left. I fail to see how this is in _any way _my fault," she tells him calmly, a small smile tweaking at the corners of her mouth.  
"Because you were – you were standing behind me," he says lamely. Even Angie is smirking now, though she seems to be doing that a lot lately.  
"I didn't realise that you had a distracting fear of people being near you," Clara murmurs.  
"I don't," he replies quickly. "But in fairness your head was on top of mine."  
"I also didn't know that Timelord heads required excessive light exposure to formulate thought," she smiles properly now. Her secret weapon. Perhaps she's not aware that her smile _is _a secret weapon, but it is one none the less.  
"They don't require any light exposure…" the Doctor mutters.  
"So your problem is?" she prompts.  
He'd like to think she's doing this on purpose, but she's really not. He can see that. The Doctor can tell just by looking at Clara's eyes that she actually, genuinely doesn't mean to do that – she simply came over to a) watch, and b) possibly annoy him into being _cross _and therefore being distracted.  
"I do not have a problem."  
"Good. Also, you owe Artie the piece of his choice," she reminds him.  
The longer the match progresses, the less it becomes a 'team' game; Angie gets bored and wanders off to do something else, and Clara becomes more involved in watching the actual game than helping the boys play it.  
Currently, she's kneeling beside the Doctor with her elbow resting on his knee, cupping her face in her hand as she watches the game with a frown on her face.  
"So what's that one, the horse, do?" she asks the Doctor, turning her head slightly to look at him.  
"That's called a knight. It can only move like _this,_" – he demonstrates with an invisible chess piece in the air – "or like _this_."  
The Doctor's performance rate has dropped steadily throughout the game, to the point where Artie is actually on the verge of winning, though the kid hasn't realised it. And while the blame cannot _exactly _be attributed to Clara, it is nevertheless on her shoulders. Every time she moves, or talks, or breathes, or does anything, really, his focus is utterly and completely broken. She's not doing it on purpose; she's just being Clara, which is exactly the problem. She's still a mystery to him, though not in the way she started out as: he still can't explain Victorian Clara or Oswin Oswald, but the mystery of this girl is much greater. Of _who _she is, not _what _or _how _she is. He wants to know every little thing about Clara Oswald, and if to achieve that he has to spend the rest of her life with her, than that is pretty good. Even if that meant he had to stay at the Maitland's every day for ninety years, he'd do it. It is probably bad, the Doctor supposes, that he's become willing to give up the stars to spend so many days with an ordinary human girl. Not that Clara is ordinary. She's perfect, and as he understands that while everyone is amazing in their own way, no one is quite like as flawless as Clara, and that stops her from being ordinary is any way.  
Clara's standing behind Artie, now, watching over the kid's head, which _should _technically allow the Doctor to focus again. Now she wasn't at such close quarters, it _should _be easier. After all, he didn't have any problem with proximity if they are doing something together (their numerous soufflé attempts are testimony to this), but as soon as he is expected to give even a tiny portion of his attention to anyone _but _her, that is where the problem arises.  
But Clara Oswald is a good two and a half feet away, now, so he should be fine.  
How about 'no'.  
He can afford to not focus while Artie makes his move, so that is what the Doctor does. He watches the way Clara's eyebrows crinkle together slightly as she watches the board; the way the corners of her mouth tilt up as she ponders the challenge set before her, trying to figure it out even if she isn't a participant; the way her eyes light up slightly with that calculating look they sometimes acquire when she thinks about something particularly interesting; the way her small hand brushes strands of her dark hair away from her face when they drop down as she tilts her head. The list of tiny, tiny perfect things go on and on inside his head. This, he decides, is probably the best Clara has ever looked. Well, not quite: the look of wonder and marvel in Clara's eyes when she sees a foreign star for the first time is quite incomparable, and impossibly beautiful. His mind flicks back to a sharp memory, still clear despite the fact the events had taken place over a month ago.  
_"Do_ _you think I'm pretty?"  
"No. You're too short and bossy and your nose is all funny."  
_If the Doctor could change one moment in time, that would probably be it. If he'd spoken the truth, things might be different now. There were two possibilities: one, he wouldn't be travelling with Clara anymore as she would have asked him to go away. Or two, he would now be allowed to hold that small hand of hers and never have to let go.  
It would probably have been worth the risk, if he'd said the truth: _"Yes, I think you're pretty. You're short, and I love that, and funny, and I love that, and…_"  
The Doctor can't really think of the right word to describe her nose. He could say 'cute', certainly, but that wasn't a Doctor word. He could just cut to _"And I love _you_."_  
"Doctor. _Doctor._" Clara's speech breaks through his thoughts.  
"Yes? What?" he asks hurriedly, blinking.  
"Artie went to get a drink a full minute ago, and you didn't even blink. You've just been staring. For about two minutes now. At me," she adds. "What did I do?"  
It takes him a moment before he realises that she's worried that she's done something wrong, to upset him.  
While to Doctor hadn't told Clara, he'd been to visit Sarah-Jane yesterday to ask her something about his Impossible Girl. She'd advised him to take a jump, told him that you regret the things you didn't do when you should have done them. He'd feebly argued that Clara was human – too short a life. Another death to break him. Sarah had responded by telling him that if the time Clara had was limited, then surely he should do with it the best that he could. He'd given up on Sarah-Jane for advice (because she gave what he needed to hear, not wanted to be told, as the truth scared him), of course, not entirely sure why he'd come in the first place, and gone to see Clara herself.  
But looking at her now, he really _does _see what Madame Vastra meant. To use the short time because the time itself was short.  
So The Doctor, the Oncoming Storm, the Predator, crosses his fingers and decides to take that jump.

Clara is unsure what to make of his expression; of all his unreadable masks, this has to been one of the most well-constructed. No feature on his face has shifted in the last two minutes, and nothing has changed now he is focused again.  
Something is clearly bothering him. She just hopes it isn't her, or something she's done. After another moment, the Doctor stands up, which for some reason makes Clara want to take a step back. She's not sure why: after all, she's never been _afraid _of him, quite the opposite. But now she's terrified because her trick has stopped working, no matter how many times a day she tries it – _don't fall in love. _It's far too late for her to run away from him now, she's fallen too far, but it would be more than easy for him to leave her, to just hop in his blue box one day and never return. And if Clara was ever afraid of anything, it would be that.  
So she really, truly hopes that whatever is causing the slight frown on his face has nothing at all to do with her, though she has a dauntingly large suspicion that it might be.  
"Clara Oswald," he begins, reaching out and cupping her face in his hand so gently it is as if he's not really there at all. She's half afraid that if she blinks, he won't be. On the upside, however, she no longer feels _any _inclination to move away; she could stay here forever. Unfortunately, Clara has seen forever right up close and knows that this is not part of it.  
"That's me," she tells him. "I am most definitely Clara Oswald. 100%."  
He nods happily, his frown lifting. "Yes you are. And that is absolutely fine with me," he says, giving her a tight, tight hug for no apparent reason. Without thinking, she hugs him back. That's one of the good things about their hugs: they're easy not to think about, easy to get lost in.  
After a few moments, he lets her go slightly, still holding her but at a relatively close distance. "I think," he starts, "that I would quite like to re-answer a question put to me a small while ago that I did not answer entirely truthfully – at all truthfully – as well as request an upgrade in modality of the sentiment."  
She frowns at him, adjusting his bowtie as they speak. More for something to do with her hands rather than an imperfection in the arrangement of the fashion accessory. "Cut to the chase, Chin Boy, and tell me exactly what you want to say. No questions, just answers."  
The Doctor shrugs. Well, he's started this off now, he may as well finish it. "I would like to tell that you are very, very beautiful, Clara Oswald -" he pauses as if he wants to say more, his eyes carefully fixed on her face, trying to gauge her reaction.  
And Clara herself is not _exactly _sure what her reaction is, for that matter – she's a bit taken aback, certainly. But not in a bad way. In fact, in a rather incredible and most interestingly amazing way. She'd thought they'd left this question behind those months when it was asked, but apparently not. It would seem it had still been whispering away in the Doctor's mind just as it had in hers, though obviously for a different reason: he had worried over telling a lie, while she had been under the impression it was the truth, which had edged away at her.  
The Doctor seems to consider saying more for a few seconds, before giving up and doing something highly unexpected indeed. After half a heartbeat's hesitation, he leans down and kisses her. It only lasts about five seconds, with Clara a little too surprised to really kiss back, before he pulls away.  
"Sorry," he murmurs. She wonders why he's apologizing until she realises that he was also aware she hadn't kissed him back. Not for lack of interest or reciprocation of feelings, as he thought, but rather shock at the idea he actually had those feelings in the first place.  
"Shut up," she tells him, quickly taking his lapels, pulling him down and pressing her lips to his again. "You're an _idiot_," she mutters, and feels him smile, his lips curling up happily but not leaving hers.  
After another moment, she feels his hands slowly settle on her waist as hers press against his chest, one over each of his hearts.

Artie walks back into the room, sees them, and very quickly turns around and leaves again, jumping up the stairs three at a time to find Angie and work out what sort of protocol he should follow. This was new.  
Angie looks up as her brother bursts into her room, his face caught between a worried and confused expression.  
"The Doctor and Clara -" he begins, but Angie cuts him off, grinning wickedly.  
"_Code Expected_?" she asks, smirking, glancing up from her laptop.  
He frowns. "Why is it called 'Code Expected'? This isn't expected."  
Angie rolls her eyes. "_How _is this in any way unexpected? I went over this with you."  
Artie nods vigorously to show he remembers. "Yes, but when you said 'got together', I assumed you meant, I don't know, _married._"  
Angie stares at him, trying to make sure he's serious. "So _you_ thought our highly intelligent and witty nanny slash semi-older sister person, aka Clara, would simply _marry_ the Doctor one Wednesday?"  
Artie thinks for a moment, before shrugging. "I guess so. I didn't really think about it."  
It is with great restraint that Angie doesn't roll her eyes again. "Sometimes I wonder about you, you know."  
Artie's eyes widen with innocence and ignorance. "What? I thought that's what adults did… get married…"  
"Not really, Artie. Not Clara and her space alien one thousand year old boyfriend," Angie tells him.  
"So he _actually really properly _is her boyfriend then?"  
"Yep. Check Clara off the list."

After a while, Clara finally pulls away from the Doctor. This is one, because she actually does have to breathe properly at some point and two… no, she really doesn't have a second reason.  
So the Doctor just hugs her tight, as if he thinks that if he lets go, she'll fall again. Part of him actually believes that, he realises. Because all good things get taken away from him sooner or later, and this moment in time with Clara Oswald is most definitely a good thing.  
"Doctor," Clara mutters into his chest, her voice nearly lost.  
"Hmm?" he replies.  
"Nothing. I had something I was going to say, but it's gone. Never mind," she says.  
"Ok," he tells her. The Doctor is reminded of the time he went to the planet Happ-1-ness, where the gravity created an odd lifting sensation that the human mind associated with joy, resulting in the civilians being in a constant state of 'yay'. Except this feeling is much better.  
"Well," Angie says from the stairs, "you know what else you've forgotten? It was the Doctor's chess move when Artie went for a drink. It's been over eight minutes since then, and thirty seconds equals one piece for Artie… so you've lost the game, Doctor," she deduces happily, before heading back upstairs to talk to her brother.  
And even if today's events did cost her a fiver to Clara, it had been well worth it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 2**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

"Did you know," the Doctor begins, "that I accidentally invented the word _tardiness_?"  
Clara, whose head had been resting on his shoulder while she curled up beside him reading a book sat upright. "No," she says, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.  
"Yes," he nods matter-of-factly. "I did. You know how I end up getting time mixed around a lot, and show up places quite late sometimes?"  
Clara nods, smirking at a variety of memories related to the Doctor's inability to show up when expected, and skill of making entrances when not anticipated. "Yes."  
"Well, that's where we get the word _tardiness _from. A few hundred years before this time, I promised a chap I'd be there at ten, and got there at eleven – not a massive mistake, mind you – and I blamed it on the TARDIS. I was trying to explain it to the poor bloke and used the word 'TARDIS-ness' – which I made up on the spot, by the way – and he thought I'd said _tardiness. _It was the only thing that hadn't sounded alien and complicated, so he'd assumed it was a word for being late. Funny, eh? I have a _word._"  
Clara rolls her eyes at him. "I'm sure you have a lot of words, Doctor. You're everywhere in time and space, you practically _are _words. I'm going to have to get _myself _a word, come to think of it…"  
"Perfect?" the Doctor suggests, before realising he said that out loud, not in his head like he'd thought.  
Clara smiles slightly with the corner of her mouth. It's not a proper smile, but it still makes the Doctor grin. Then she frowns. "That's _a _word, Doctor. Not _my _word."  
Now he's frowning too. "Why not? It should be. We can go back and _actually properly _make it your word, if you like."  
She shakes her head, and kisses him quickly on the cheek. "I've got to go out and get some milk and some glue and coloured paper for Artie's science project. Can you watch the kids for me?"  
The Doctor nods adamantly. "Of course. Absolutely, yes. I'm very good at watching things."  
She nods. "I know. See you,"  
Clara then calls up the stairs to remind the kids she's going out, before quickly disappearing out the door. Once she's gone, the Doctor gently touches his cheekbone where Clara's lips brushed it. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the falling-flying sensation that occurs whenever they are that close.  
Artie and Angie thud down the stairs together, sticking their heads around the bannister to look at him in unison.  
"Are you babysitting us?" Angie asks suspiciously.  
The Doctor nods and shrugs slightly. "I guess so."  
"Wow," Artie breathes, looking shocked.  
"What do you mean, _wow_?" the Doctor tugs at his bowtie slightly, flicking his quiff out of his eyes.  
"Clara _never _lets anyone else watch us. Ever. She says that because it's her job and that our dad leaves us with _her, _she can't just hand us over to someone else," Artie elaborates.  
"Just give up denying you're her boyfriend," Angie advises, raising an eyebrow casually. "We all know you're lying when you say that now."  
The Doctor tilts his head to the side. "What makes a human boyfriend, then? What makes you think I'm one?"  
Angie laughs. "I never saidyou were a _human _boyfriend, but I can see what you're getting at. And what makes a boyfriend… _hmm…_ you know, I just forget you're not human, because you look like one, so it never really occurs to me that you haven't seen any films and that…"  
"Oi," the Doctor interrupts quickly. "I have too seen movies. I've _been _in movies. I've done everything you can to do with movies: special effects, lighting, directing, accidentally nearly married Marilyn Munroe, written and produced. So _there_. I know about movies."  
Angie nods. "Ok, then, how do you _not _know what a boyfriend does, then?"  
The Doctor shrugs a bit and shuffles a little awkwardly. "I don't know, I just don't do _those _kinds of movies. I'm not a boyfriend-girlfriend-y kind of person."  
"Evidence would contradict that," Angie smirks. Even though Artie is not 100% sure what 'contradict' _means, _he nods vigorously.  
The Doctor sighs. "Are you going to tell me, Angie, or do I have to go to the Library in the TARDIS and find a book? Someone must have written a guide somewhere through history…"  
Angie's smirk quadruples in size and then grows some more. "_A guide, _Doctor? That would imply you were intending to _learn_."  
The Doctor opens his mouth to quickly counter her, hoping something will come out, but Angie's already talking again.  
"Besides," she says, "_you _can't leave and go to a library. Clara left you babysitting us. What if you come home late again, and miss us by days and days and then Clara will be _very mad at you,_" she continues gleefully, skipping down the remaining steps.  
"What do you mean, 'come home late' – I live in the TARDIS," he reminds her.  
"In theory, yes, but you're practically as permanent as that lamp or the television in our house nowadays," Angie says.  
The Doctor raises his eyebrows in surprise, and glances at Artie for confirmation of this statement. The kid shrugs and nods. A short silence ensues.  
"Are you going to tell me or not?" the Doctor asks finally, and Angie can see his 'grumpy' face beginning to slip on. Not where he's actually, properly cross (that would be terrifying, she thinks) but the one where he looks like an eight year old who has been excluded from a game and isn't sure why.  
"Well, Angie?" Artie joins in, half out of sympathy for the Doctor and half out of curiosity. Angie had said the Doctor was Clara's boyfriend for months, so he's called him that too (Artie would never admit it, ever, but part of him still thought that if Angie said it, it _must_ be true). But now he was actually curious to see what constituted that title.  
"I suppose," Angie says, enjoying being the one with the information. She flops down on the couch, flicking through Clara's half-finished book and very careful not to lose her nanny's place – that would not make for a happy Clara. "I suppose you have to do nice things. Take her places," she begins to list.  
"I do that," the Doctor checks off, unconsciously out loud. As this earns him another eyebrow tweak from Angie, he is forced to concede that perhaps, maybe, he _is _intending to learn. Not that there was a need for anyone else to know what.  
"Hmmm… do stuff for her that she can't do herself…"  
"I help her fix things and get things down from high shelves," the Doctor says, looking to Angie to see if this counted.  
"I guess that covers _that _part of the criteria. Though I wouldn't mention the shelf thing, ever, as a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card if she's cross – that's another way of saying she is seriously short for a twenty four year old, and that won't get you anywhere… what's another thing… oh, you have to do things like bring her flowers…"  
"I _took _her to a planet made of flowers, once," the Doctor suggests.  
Angie shakes her head. "Not good enough. That comes under places and dates, not gift-y 'thinking of you' things."  
"Does Clara actually like stuff like that?" the Doctor asks doubtfully.  
"Probably," Angie says, waving a hand airily. "Most everyone does. You only get to see the fiery, sarcastic, eyebrows-are-raised-at-you version of Clara."  
"There's _another _version?" the Doctor asks, wondering why he missed out on hearing about this.  
"Clara's one of those 'dice' people, you know?" Angie tells him. "The ones with all those different faces. There's sad Clara, who's different from happy and amused Clara, there's scared Clara, there's lost Clara – that one makes an appearance every once in a while and is not fun, it's sad – then there's tired Clara and cross Clara and happily-looking-after-kids Clara…"  
"Which Clara do I get, then?" the Doctor says, adjusting his bowtie again.  
Angie shrugs. "I don't know, I'm not with you all the time. You probably get most of them, but all wrapped up in her reserved Clara coating… look, we're getting off the point: I was just saying that she probably likes normal, sweet human-y stuff as well as being scared to death by Cybermen and those nightmares that make her scream sometimes…" Angie cuts herself off suddenly, her face freezing.  
"What?" the Doctor asks, his face knitting into a tight frown at the words 'nightmare' and 'screaming'.  
"Angie!" Artie whispers urgently. "That was on the list of things that you were absolutely-under-no-circumstances allowed to mention!"

Clara is _fairly _sure that leaving the Doctor alone with the kids was a good idea. It meant she didn't have to drag them along with her, and it meant they got to hang out with him, which they seemed to enjoy doing. He _was _a space alien, after all. And the Doctor, Angie and Artie all had her number in case something went wrong. She knows, of course, that it is highly unlikely that any of them will call in the event of an emergency; they'd try to work it out themselves…  
Clara sighs as she walks through the shops, trolley in one hand, an avocado in the other. She eyes it carefully, trying to decide if it will be ripe by Saturday, when Angie and Artie's cousins are coming over for a family get-together. What day was it today? Clara wasn't entirely certain. She had become, in the last few months, used to measuring how far through her week she was by the time since and to another visit from the Doctor. But lately he seemed to have been there every day. Not that she was complaining, far from it. It did, however, stuff up her internal calendar.  
"What'd that avocado ever do to you, Clara?" a voice asks from behind her.  
In under a second, Clara realises two things: one, she's been glaring at the avocado in her hand slightly harder than she meant to while she tried to figure everything out, and two, that voice belongs to Kate, her best friends from high school and later university.  
Clara whips around, her hair turning in a fan a split second after her, like an echo of her movement. "Absolutely nothing, Kate. This avocado has offended me in no way at all. It just happened to be in my hand while I was thinking," she tells the other girl.  
Kate was a blonde, green-eyed, tall, bubbly girl, about as different from Clara as if was possible to get without being a Raxacoricofallapatorian, or say, a colour. "Well," she says, "we all know how terrible it is to be on the receiving end of one of Clara's glares, don't we, avocado?"  
Clara quirks an eyebrow at her. "Are you talking to my avocado, Kate?"  
"I might be," the other girl laughs, and Clara too cracks a smile. They hug.  
"I haven't seen you in _ages,_" Kate complains.  
Clara nods. "Well, you know – been busy." _More busy than you know, Kate. Going places, seeing things, pulling the "don't fall in love" trick about eight times a day. Pretty close to giving up on that trick, actually. It doesn't work, anyway._  
Kate raises an eyebrow, an amused expression on her face. "How busy can two kids keep you? I haven't seen you in about four weeks. I swear, Clara, you're like this yoyo – half the time you want to do everything, go places, eat out, and be normal, and the other half you leave your house only when absolutely necessary."  
Clara shrugs. "Maybe. I guess so. I'm not sure why I'm like that."  
Kate thought she knew, though. Clara would bounce from being happy and young to missing her mother and trying to make it up to herself and the Maitland's by looking after those kids. Kate sighs.  
"Oi," Clara mutters. "I _have_ been going out and doing things. Travelling around a bit, stuff like that. What have you been up to?"  
Kate shrugs. "Helping my sister and her fiancée plan their wedding."  
Clara smirks deviously. "What about you and Alex, then? Can I help you plan _your _wedding?" The other girl playfully punches her on the arm. "We are _not_ getting married, Clara."  
Clara wonder if this is what it's like to be Angie, watching grown-ups heartily deny everything that ends up happening anyway.  
"Would you like to go for a coffee and catch up a bit?" Kate suggests.  
Clara smiles. "I'd love to, but I'm supposed to be looking after Angie and Artie."  
Kate waves a hand airily. "An obstacle easily surpassed. I've finished my shopping, so I could go back to the Maitland's and meet you there – look after them for you for ten minutes. I wish to hear about this 'travelling'. Besides, Angie and Artie love me – I'm _cool,_ they told me."  
Clara laughs. "Only cos you have a desk job at the BBC and your boyfriend does lighting for some of the shows, which is 'cool' because everyone at our house is a devout _Sherlock_ follower, other than Artie – he's too young. You do realise you have Angie's definition of a perfect life: an apartment, office romance, and job at Britain's greatest television company?"  
Kate sighs dramatically, and jokingly. "I suppose it _is _a pretty perfect life, come to think of it. Well, Clara, you know what they say – good things come to those who wait."  
Clara's eyebrows jump higher. "You didn't wait for _anything_," she tells Kate, gesturing with her avocado. "You just showed up there and said, _Hi, I'm Kate, and – _then…"  
"They gave me a job."  
"Yes."  
"I fear for the livelihood of your avocado, Clara. Put it back or in your trolley," Kate instructs. Clara rolls her eyes, still smiling, and places the fruit in her basket in an exaggerated manner.  
"Well, I'll see you at the Maitland's," Kate says, waving a goodbye and disappearing down the aisle.  
Clara shakes her head after her. They'd bonded over their families in school – Kate's father had been arrested for a crime they still weren't sure he committed when Kate was twelve, and Clara's mother had died when she was sixteen. Both of them had bounced back in different ways.  
She spends about five minutes trying to find the coloured cardboard for Artie before she remembers something, and quickly pulls out her phone, hurriedly dialling Kate's number. After a moment, the other girl picks up. "Hi, Clara, what's up? I'm nearly there," Kate says, on answering.  
Clara rubs her temple for a second, trying to work out how to phrase this. "Look – how about if you come over tomorrow, instead?"  
Clara can practically _hear _Kate frown. "What's wrong, Clara?" she asks. "You sound worried – are you ok?"  
"Fine, yeah," Clara says quickly. "It's just, one of my other friends is over there babysitting the Maitland's for a sec while -"  
"_What_?" Kate replies quickly, and Clara can clearly visualise her eyebrows shooting up. "You don't let other people look after those kids when you're supposed to be doing it… I thought you meant, before, that they were with their dad, and you were supposed to be relieving him of fatherly duties."  
Clara shakes her head unconsciously. "No, I'm the one looking after them at the moment. I'm fine with you going over there, but you don't know him -"  
"It's a _him_? Very interesting, Clara…"  
"Look, Kate, I can see what thought train you're on, and get off it – you're as bad as Angie, she's been going on about that sort of thing for _months_…" _Was it the right thought train, though? _Clara wasn't really sure where she and the Doctor where, anymore. Closer than ever, obviously, but how close?  
"_Months_?" Kate echoes, intrigued. "How is it I have escaped his acquaintance if he's been coming over for _months_?"  
"Because he's just a friend – you don't know all my friends," Clara counters desperately.  
But Kate's on a roll now. "Clara, we went to the same high school _and _uni and basically everything: I either grew up with, or am related to, most of your friends."  
Clara shrugs, pressing the phone between her ear and shoulder as she turns a tub of glue around in her hands to look at the label. "Yes, but still… I haven't introduced you, so that might make it a bit awkward."  
"Do the kids know him?" Kate asks.  
"Well, Artie has practically worshipped him since forever, and he helps Angie with her homework, so yes."  
"Then I'll just get them to introduce me to your boyfriend!" Kate says, as if this is the most obvious conclusion in the world.  
"But…" Clara begins weakly. Kate is an unstoppable force when she wishes to be.  
"He helps the kids with their homework, plays with them and babysits them. He is obviously your boyfriend."  
"He's – I don't actually know, what he is, but -"  
"See you there, Clara!" Kate laughs, hanging up.  
Clara sighs. She knew she wouldn't be able to get out of this one. Kate was one of the most social, shrewd people she knew, and leaving her with Angie to talk about Clara and the Doctor was not going to do anything but vindicate the oldest Maitland child.  
Though not, perhaps, without reason.


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank You Clara's Boyfriend - chapter 13**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. At all. Not even the computer I'm writing on. It's quite sad, really. No, most unfortunately, every speck of ownership of Doctor Who resides with the BBC.**

"What do you mean, _nightmares_?" the Doctor asks carefully.  
Both Artie and Angie have gone completely still, unsure how to react. Finally, Artie pipes up. "Angie got it wrong, Doctor, she didn't mean Clara… she meant… um… uh…"  
"Artie! Artie has nightmares about…" Angie continues on from her brother, but is unsure where to take their lie.  
The Doctor frowns at them. "Tell me the absolute correct truth right now and I'll bring you un-poppable bubbles from Clom next time I go," he promises.  
Artie caves in immediately, having not been entirely comfortable with keeping a secret anyway, despite Clara's instructions. "Clara has nightmares, quite a lot. Ever since she started travelling with you. The more she travels the worse they get."  
"Artie! She told us not to say!" Angie scolds him.  
Artie shrugs. "Why can't the Doctor know? We do."  
Angie sighs. "Fine. Yeah, she has nightmares. We don't know what they're about, she won't talk about them. Once, though, I think she mentioned falling." On seeing the look on the Doctor's face, she hurriedly adds. "She's only screamed twice! And she says it's nothing!"  
The Doctor groans, rubbing his forehead with his hands. "Of course she says it's nothing, she's Clara."  
Angie can't decide if he looks worried or angry or sad. There's a high possibility it's all three. She's about to say something when the doorbell rings.  
"That'll be Clara! I'll get it!" Artie practically shouts, desperate to get out of the room.  
Angie looks away from the Doctor, feeling slightly guilty. The first time a nightmare had forced Clara awake, in tears, and Angie and Artie had come running in (fearing, perhaps, that the Cybermen had found them again), she'd made them swear never to tell the Doctor. She wouldn't say why. But they'd promised anyway, because that's what you did. When Clara asked for your word, you gave it.  
To the surprise of both Angie and the Doctor, Artie is not followed back into the room by Clara, but Kate, their nanny's friend from Uni.  
"Hi," Kate says, before directing her next comment to the Doctor. "You must be -"  
"Clara's boyfriend," Angie finishes for her.  
The Doctor just plasters on a smile, despite being worried about the news of Clara's nightmares, and introduces himself. "Hi, I'm John Smith. But everyone calls me the Doctor."  
Kate nods. "Yes, Clara desperately tried to discourage my coming here on account of your presence, but I think we'll manage fine."  
She glances at Angie over the Doctor's shoulder; the teenage girl is mouthing _I know, right? Clara has a boyfriend._  
Kate smiles warmly at everyone, and checks her watch: it's 11 o'clock.  
"Well, then," Kate says. "What shall we do? Clara will be back in ten."  
"Come see my science project so far!" Artie decides, and everyone files upstairs.  
The frown has reformed on the Doctor's face. _Clara has nightmares, _he thinks. _Bad nightmares. _He wonders why she hasn't told him about them – perhaps she fears he will be angry? Or stop letting her come? That is an option, he supposes. But no way is he saying goodbye to his Impossible Girl. Even if it means he has to visit her every day at the Maitland's until the nightmares stop and she can come with him again. The most likely cause of these dreams, the Doctor decides, is Displaced Temporal Flux. As it is a time machine, existing through every moment, the TARDIS has to ensure that Clara (a visitor) and her memories stay in the right order while she travels through time. But as Clara has existed in the TARDIS once before, the Doctor's ship is most likely becoming confused between the two different girls and assigning the only living version some of the other's memories. That would explain why the memories (for surely that was what they were) appeared only while Clara slept – her mind was able to cancel them out while she was awake, but while she rested…  
DTF was _one _possible explanation, anyway. The only thing for sure was that he and Clara would be talking when she got back. He had to make sure she was ok. He'd have to take her to the TARDIS and run some scans, to find out what _exactly _was wrong…  
But for now, the Doctor forces it out of his mind. If this is Clara's best friend, it is probably a good idea not to come across as brooding and cross.  
So he smiles and talks like nothing is wrong, chatting to Artie about his project and Kate about her work and occasionally raising his eyebrows at Angie to try to ward off her devious expression, to no avail.  
Almost exactly fifteen minutes after Kate arrives, the Doctor hears the front door click open. "That'll be Clara," he mutters, smiles, and disappears downstairs.  
Once he's gone, Kate smirks and says, "So _that's _Clara's boyfriend."  
Angie and Artie nod in sync.  
"He's a bit weird at first," the former tells the older girl, "but he really is very nice. And he loves Clara to bits."

Literally as soon as Clara's opened the door, the Doctor's there, taking the bags out of her hands and carrying them over to the kitchen table.  
"Hello," she smiles, though her expression falters when she sees the slightly darker look in his eyes. "What's wrong?" Clara asks, worried.  
"Angie and Artie told me about the nightmares," he explains.  
Clara's eyebrows deepen into a frown. "I told them not to, very explicitly, as I recall."  
"Well, Angie slipped up, and then _everyone_ was talking once I promised them un-poppable bubbles from Clom. More importantly, though, Clara, _why _weren't they allowed to tell me?" the Doctor asks, gently cupping her cheek in his hand.  
"Didn't want to bother you," Clara shrugs, putting down her red shoulder bag on the kitchen table, along with her car keys. "It's nothing."  
"No, it's not. It's not nothing. Clara, it's my _job _to make sure you're ok," the Doctor tells her.  
"Doctor, I'm fine," Clara assures him, hugging him round the middle. Despite his worry, the Doctor immediately hugs her back, kissing her lightly on the forehead.  
"I don't care if you're fine," he says. "Nightmares aren't weak, Clara. There's nothing wrong with them. I think the TARDIS might be causing them, so I -"  
"The old cow, she wouldn't give me bad dreams on purpose, would she?" Clara interjects, a frown jumping onto her face.  
The Doctor hurriedly shakes his head. "No, no, not on purpose. Look, wibbly wobbly timey wimey – will you just come onto the TARDIS for one night so I can scan your mental activity during a nightmare and sort it out?"  
Clara just smiles slightly. "I don't think it's anything to do with your TARDIS, actually. I think it's just me being a normal human and normal humans have bad dreams when they see bad things."  
"Please? Please just let me make sure."  
She smiles a bit again. "Ok," she says, even though she knows there's no need, and she probably won't actually let him scan her later.  
Clara pulls away from his hug. "Is Kate here?" she asks.  
"Yep," replies her friend, as she walks down the stairs. "Right here."  
Clara grins at her. "If you've got Angie and Artie entertained, I'll start making lunch, then," she says.  
"I'll help you," the Doctor adds, as Kate disappears back up the stairs.

"So how does Clara know John, then?" Kate asks Angie. Artie's playing chess on the computer with his headphones in – Angie had figured it would be best to keep him out of it as much as possible: they weren't telling Kate about the TARDIS and travelling, and she knew that if the kid got excited, he'd let something slip (an assumption he'd already given evidence to today by giving away more of Clara's secret).  
"I don't actually know how she met him, but she knew him for _ages _before we even _saw_ him. And then we did one day and Clara was forced to make all this stuff up. It was very funny. But now he's here quite a lot, helping Clara and everything," Angie says, quite happy to gossip about the pair.  
"Interesting," Kate smirks. "Clara hasn't really had a proper boyfriend in quite a while now, has she? It must've been at least two and a half years."  
"About," Angie shrugs. "I never really used to pay much attention. Neither of them will admit it now, though. I'm not sure why. I think Clara thinks the Doctor doesn't _actually _like her that much and visa versa."  
Kate smiles a little sadly. "That happens sometimes. I had two friends a few years ago who both really liked each other but never got together because they worried too much about that. It was a shame. I can feel a '_but' _coming on, though, Angie, so go ahead."  
"But they _do _like each other," Angie bursts out. "Artie _actually _thought they were going to get married. I still haven't figured out what lead him to that, but anyway."  
Kate's smirking again. "Have you tried setting them up, Angie?"  
Angie nods a bit. "Once or twice."  
"And what happened?"  
"The first time they ended up dancing for about an hour and the second time they ended up snogging."  
Kate quirks an eyebrow. "And you gave it up as a failure?"  
There is a short pause as it finally dawns on Angie that perhaps that _hadn't _been a dead end. "…Yes."  
"And was it actually?"  
"… _No_…" the devious expression returns to Angie's face, and Kate cannot help but wonder what she may have got Clara into.

The rest of the day goes fairly well, all things considered. Kate warns Angie not to go too far in the way of trying to get the Doctor and Clara together, saying that they'd manage in their own time if it was going to happen. A little careful prodding, however, they both decided, was definitely not out of the question.  
Kate keeps an eye on her friend and this 'John Smith' for the rest of the afternoon. He was certainly tripping over himself with admiration, though sometimes it was a little hard to tell with Clara – the girl always kept her emotions very well guarded. Occasionally, she'd slip. Just a bit. And then Kate could see the way she'd look at John Smith and she knew Angie was right.  
At four o'clock, Kate has to be off. "See ya," Kate says, and she and Clara hug. She shakes the Doctor's hand, ruffles Artie's hair and gives Angie a quick hug too. "Better head off, Alex and I are going out."  
"Where?" Angie asks.  
Kate shrugs. "Probably a movie or something nice and normal like that. Bye!"  
They all wave her off happily, but once her car pulls away, Clara rounds on the two Maitland children. "You two, upstairs, now," she instructs, with a slight glint in her eye that means neither child is inclined to disobey. The Doctor opens his mouth to say something. "Not now, Doctor, it's nothing. I'll be back in a minute."  
He knows there's not a thing to be done once Clara has an expression like that on her face, so he waits rather impatiently in the kitchen while Clara follows Angie and Artie upstairs. After her footsteps fade away, the light bulb above him flickers. The Doctor _actually _jumps with joy at the prospect of being able to do something, of having something to fix: it will fill the time while he waits to discover if he got the Maitland kids into trouble somehow or not.

"Right," Clara says, clicking the door shut behind her as both Angie and Artie sit on the former's bed, looking down slightly. "Artie, do you remember what a 'promise' means?"  
The ten year old nods vigorously. "Yes, Clara."  
His nanny kneels down in front of him, but Artie won't meet her eyes. "And what did I put on the list of things that you had to promise to absolutely never, ever mention to the Doctor?"  
"Your nightmares," Artie replies, looking guilty.  
"Angie, what does the Doctor now know about?" Clara asks, raising an eyebrow.  
"Your nightmares."  
"Correct."  
"Clara, you're doing your Victorian Governess thingy again. We just stuffed up, we're sorry," Angie tells her.  
Clara sighs, and sits on the bed between them, wrapping an arm around each child. "I know," she mutters. "I'm not cross. But now the Doctor's going to worry and want to do a whole bunch of scans and so on and so forth on me now."  
"But – he promised us… un-poppable bubbles," Artie says, as if this justifies everything.  
Clara laughs. "Promise me, Artie, you'll never become an international spy or government official if all it takes for you to reveal information is the possibility of bubbles."  
"I think that's a fairly good reason," Angie counters.  
"Well," Clara suggests, "I'm sure if you go downstairs and ask the Doctor very nicely, he'll take us all to the planet of Clom and you can look at those bubbles to your heart's content."  
Clara blinks; the only evidence remaining that the Maitland children were ever in the room with her at all when her eyes flicker back open a fraction of a second later is the two small dents in Angie's covers. They must have disappeared in under a quarter of a second flat.  
She smiles, shaking her head slightly, and follows them downstairs to promise of Clom.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything**

**Advertisement: I'm also on Tumblr under the same name so feel more than free to follow me**

**Warning: the following chapter is a little less fluffy later on than the norm. Updates will be happening only every couple of days as exams are descending like foul vultures.**

Clom had been fun. Of course it had – it always was, the Doctor mused. How could it _not _be fun, with a name like _Clom_? On further consideration of this point, however, the Timelord was forced to concede that it did not, after all, _sound _very amusing; but it was, nevertheless.  
Angie and Artie had thrown around and bounced on the un-poppable bubbles from the Fields of Float for a couple of hours, before they'd all stopped off at Icidious – the actual_ planet of ice cream _– for some food before heading home with two highly exhausted Maitlands.  
When they'd got back, the children's father had been waiting there, and listened happily to their stories while they lied about having been to a very interesting museum.  
Clara left Mr Maitland and the Doctor downstairs talking while she took the kids to their rooms and reviewed their 'trip' with them – Angie and Artie had a tendency to conflict details, which had happened rather awkwardly when Clara had had to invent a cover story for the time they went to that space mall (_"We went to a mall!" – "No, we went to a sports centre", _the two children had argued). It was all rather tedious.  
"Ok, so it was a museum, and then we went for ice cream. Not hard. Very basic. Make up what you did there, I don't care, just nothing bad or illegal that will get us into trouble," Clara tells the two of them, one hand on a shoulder of each child. They nod placidly in compliance, and remain upstairs to discuss their cover more in depth of what they were to describe to their father (while they'd never admit it, doing this made them feel like secret agents, and they enjoyed it so much they possibly overdid it a little) while Clara ventures back to the two men.  
"Ah, Clara," Mr Maitland says cheerfully, turning from the Doctor as she clumps down the last few stairs. "You'll be off, then – see you Thursday?"  
Clara frowns. "It's Saturday."  
He nods. "Indeed it is. But I understand you intend to get back on _Thursday_."  
Clara's confused expression persists, resulting in the Doctor explaining, "She doesn't know yet. It's a surprise."  
"Ah," Mr Maitland's expression clears. "Right. Yes. Of course.  
"Clara, go pack a bag," the Doctor instructs, an echo of excitement seeping into his voice.  
She quirks an eyebrow at him, but doesn't question his words, instead turning on her heel and marching back up the stairs to grab her things as requested.

Fifteen minutes later, having slung a few clothes and objects (and, of course, her _101 Places to See_) into a red canvas bag and hugged each Maitland goodbye, Clara's standing with him in the TARDIS, expectantly gazing at the Doctor.  
"Where we going, then, that requires us to time hop till Thursday?" she asks, leaning on the console, her dark eyes dancing.  
"Well, I told Mr Maitland that we're going on a road trip. Which we are. Sort of. We're going to go a lot of places, anyway," he tells her, fiddling with a few knobs and levers that really don't do anything at all, but Clara doesn't need to know that, he thinks. Though she might work it out – it wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that they're not even in flight.  
Clara raises an eyebrow at him. "Oh? This is about the nightmares, isn't it, Doctor? You," she says triumphantly, as if he is a riddle solved, "want to scan me."  
He scratches his hair a bit, not entirely sure where to put his hands. "Just a bit," he concedes finally. "But I _also _want to go places. I have a list, too, just like your book." He waves a sheet of paper in front of her, seeking her approval.  
She takes it off him, and he reads it over her shoulder, though he already knows what it says:

_Paris, France: Posh Ball (sometime in the Renaissance, the TARDIS is never good at pinpointing in that era)  
The Querlician Theatre at the Fourth Wall (a very cleverly named place in the F11A22LL3 Galaxy)  
The Ice Rinks on Kal-e-kello 5454 (you said you wanted to go there again)  
The Interplanetary Heritage Food Festival (there really is a lot of food)_

"Nice list," she tells him.  
He grins at her. "Thanks. Where do you want to start?"  
She frowns smilingly at him. "I believe it is common practice to do things in order: from the top to the bottom of the list."  
He tosses the paper in the air idly. "I don't like order, order's boring. Let's go skating first."  
So they do.

_Kal-e-kello 5454 _is just as beautiful, if not more so, than the last time they saw it. Unfortunately, Clara is no better at skating than the last time they came.  
The beach itself where they have come to skate is absolutely perfect – as if someone has taken a stunning, golden, thriving beach at the height of summer and immediately changed it to a winter in the extreme. But everything remains just as it was before the sudden temperature drop: the waves further out (the water for the first fifty feet from the beach is calm as a millpond) are still crashing, the vibrant, now forever-preserved fish are still swimming, the golden algae (or whatever other tiny animal it is) still glows with an oddly fascinating bioluminescent quality, stuck in place.  
"Ugh," Clara groans as she nearly falls over for about the fourth time in half as many minutes, "I wish this place had hand rails or something. No, wait, I don't – that would kind of ruin the sort of natural feel. But I would like to be able to skate, though."  
The Doctor just smiles and takes her hand, gently but firmly, knowing he'll be able to hold her up if she does trip properly.  
They're alone at the beach – this is several years before humans discover _Kal-e-kello 5454, _and realise its commercial potential, so all is quiet and still and empty.  
"This is different from last time," Clara points out. "There were aliens and people here, then."  
"We were thirty years in the future, that time," the Doctor reminds her.  
Clara shakes her head in wonder. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that, you know – that's my _past, _but everything else's _future._"  
"I don't tend to think about it," the Doctor says, before a soft blanket of snow begins to fall, distracting them both entirely. The thin flakes melt in contact with the ice, for some reason. Well, the Doctor knows why, but when he tries to explain the mechanics of it to Clara, she just shushes him.  
"Be quiet, Chin Boy," she instructs, tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear and laughing. "You can't explain everything to me, it takes away the magic. It's like with Santa when you're a kid – it's much more fun believing in him than knowing the truth."  
"I get where you're coming from, Clara, I really do, but I do feel bound to tell you that there _is _a Santa: I've even helped him once or twice. I'm not sure if this is a mystery spoiler or not, but Santa Claus was actually an experiment of the Silence – you remember I told you about those? Well, he's not tall and skinny like they are, but he does have a similar, semi-developed memory-erosive quality. Parents don't remember his coming, and so explain it away as their own work, and they actually believe it. But for certain people, like most children, the odd adult and Timelords, he isn't as hard to remember. I remember visiting Earth with him on a particularly trying year when over population meant a lot of presents to deliver. We can to cheat once or twice and use the TARDIS to have the same hours over," the Doctor says. "He stops coming to children when they are old enough for the message to destroy the Silence on Earth to affect them – he doesn't look like a Silence, but he triggers our subconscious recognition. Santa gives children presents to make up for the hope that the rest of his species take away."  
Clara smiles up at him. "Can we do that, sometime? Help Santa? Only it would be nice to tell Angie and Artie that story; the stopped believing in Santa when their mum died."  
The Doctor nods his head vigorously. "Of course. We can go now if you like."  
But she shakes her head. "No. I like it here. I just meant _sometime_."  
This sort of thing is new to the Doctor. Normally, whenever the vaguest inclination to go somewhere takes him, he's off. He'll drop what he's doing and fly away. Clara's not like that, though, he's noticed – she always to finish things: return to the Maitland's, wash the last dish and so on. Perhaps, he thinks, if she is connected to the other Clara and Oswin (how could she _not _be?), both unfinished lives, his Clara subconsciously tries to complete things as this version.  
The thought makes him sad.  
Clara seems a little distant for the next few hours. Maybe she is, like Angie suggested to him at Clom, '_trying to figure out where you two are at_'.  
He's been fine with waiting for her to work it out until now. But right this moment, with her bundled up in her winter coat, a few snowflakes whispering on her hair and her eyebrows knitted as she tries to work out how to skate, the Doctor decides that sod it, he would like to kiss her again.  
So he does. And Clara, after a moment of surprise, kisses him back.

They go to New Paris (a sparkling, amazing city that seems to be made largely from glass and lights) for dinner, and eat at a highly prestigious hotel as the Duke and Duchess of Elipsi for free (Angie would have insisted it was a date, had she seen them, and even Clara had to admit it kind of was). After that they return to the TARDIS, with Clara wondering where she's going to sleep – she's stayed overnight on the ship before, of course, but she's never had anywhere permanent. Clara more than suspects it's due to the Snogbox's deep-seated dislike of her that every time the Doctor allocates her a room, it is mysteriously deleted as soon as Clara leaves (and sometimes with her in it. That's disorientating – one second she'll be in a bed, and the next on the floor of the Console Room, a displaced life form from the 'emergency delete').  
The Doctor's fiddling with some buttons on the console when Clara starts to yawn. "Right," he mutters, face palming himself, "sleep. Humans – people – you all _sleep so much._"  
"Sorry," Clara replies, laughing quietly in between her yawns. "Darn old inefficient anatomy, don't you hate it?"  
The Doctor smiles and takes her hand. "Where we going?" she asks, but only gets a _"you'll see"_ in return.  
After walking for quite a few moments, they arrive at a big, black, circular door. "What's this?" Clara prods, but again the Doctor just shakes his head. "Trust me?" he asks. She rolls her eyes.  
"Of course I do. Do you think I'd have vanished away with you in this box of yours if I didn't?" she replies.  
He shrugs, and gently places a hand over her eyes. Clara stiffens at first, not expecting the contact, but relaxes and doesn't worry about the disorientation as his arm encircles her waist and she can feel his chest behind her (she is reminded of their trip to Akhaten, when he made her wait to see the sun). The Doctor won't let her trip or stumble or walk into anything.  
She hears the door whisper open and moves slowly as the Doctor carefully ushers her forward, not rushing her, leading her as if she were made of glass.  
"Step up," the Doctor says quietly in her ear. She does as he says, and feels her foot nudge something. "It's a staircase," the Doctor explains. "But not the kind you're used to. There's a series of interlocking circular panels that shift around, but don't worry. You'll be fine."  
Clara lets the Doctor help her, gripping him tightly.  
Finally, after what seems like a very short forever, they stop moving, and the Doctor takes his hand away from her eyes.  
Clara blinks, and feels her mouth open in awe. She and the Doctor are standing at the edge of a transparent floating dais in the centre of a gigantic glass orb floating in the middle of space, surrounded by stars. Behind Clara are a series of rotating circular discs with gold flashes of electricity running through them; the stairs (for that is what she assumes they are) spiral away down to the base of the orb, where the door they came through lies horizontally (clearly the TARDIS is playing with gravity centres again).  
"Are we – are we still in the TARDIS?" Clara asks, the Doctor, stepping away from him but not letting go of his hand as she gazes up at the bright white stars and galaxies that are flung all around them.  
"Yes," the Doctor replies. "This is my room."  
Clara does a double-take, finally noticing the other objects on the dais – one king size bed with a TARDIS-blue cover, patterned with what she recognises as Gallifreyan writing. She hears the familiar buzz of the Doctor's Sonic Screwdriver, and suddenly a golden glow echoes down from the single, curved glass wall – massive Gallifreyan symbols and words are dancing across the glass, as if projected especially for her by the stars. Clara doesn't know what they say, but neither does she need to.  
"It's beautiful," she admits, turning to face him.  
"Good," he says. "You can sleep here tonight while I run the scans; the TARDIS won't stuff it up, I promise."  
She quirks an eyebrow at him. "Don't you need to sleep?"  
He shakes his head hurriedly. "Of course not Clara, don't be silly – I got three solid hours of sleep not two days ago."  
She raises her hands in defeat. "Right, ok, sorry. So – so I just…" she gestures towards the bed.  
He nods, so she shrugs, walks over to it, and collapses on top of it.  
Within moments, Clara is asleep.

The Doctor watches her calmly, half waiting for something to happen and half hoping nothing will. Clara looks so peaceful when she sleeps, the odd strand of hair falling onto her face, making her hand vaguely tuck the lock behind her ear without opening her eyes.  
It's maybe three hours before the screaming starts.  
The Doctor isn't really expecting it, as such. Clara had been frowning in her sleep, so he'd assumed she'd been dreaming, but then she'd smiled, so he'd imagined it was a good one. Then a long, terrified scream had escaped her mouth, and Clara had sat up without opening her eyes, without waking up.  
"Clara," the Doctor says quietly, urgently, trying to wake her, trying to make her stop, "Clara, open your eyes."  
She stops screaming but remains in a half-sleep state, caught in the twilight zone between wakefulness and rest. Tears fall quickly from beneath her closed eyelids.  
He reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder, but she pulls away from him as far as she can go, curling up against herself as if his touch burns her.  
"Help!" Clara screams, her hands yanking at her hair as if inside her head is hell.  
"I'm here," the Doctor tells her in a falsely calm voice.  
"_HELP!_" she yells, even louder, making the Doctor wonder if _he _is the one she wants help from.  
"Clara, calm down. Wake up."  
"I'm falling – stop me falling – please – please – stop – Doctor! Run, Doctor!" Clara is shaking now, too, as if she is having a fit. The sight clads both his hearts in ice, so he reaches out to shake her shoulders, trying to coax her out of slumber.  
"Clara. Clara! Clara!" he's yelling too, now. This isn't just an ordinary nightmare. Clara's going to stop breathing soon if she doesn't stop screaming and take in some air.  
"Run… you…" she whispers finally, and the Doctor is terrified now. Clara couldn't _die _during a nightmare, could she? Surely not…  
The Timelord scoops his Impossible Girl up in his arms, gently placing her on his lap and rocking back and forth, back and forth, trying to think of anything he can do to help her. She's still shaking hard, as if she is incredible cold. "…Clever… Boy…" she mutters.  
Clara Oswald is _not _going to die. Not today. Because _he _loves _her_, and he has lost too many things he loves. But he loves Clara more than anything else, ever, and this time, not even all the stars in the universe will take her away from him.


	15. Chapter 15

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Doctor Who.**

**WARNING: not fluffy, more failed-attempt-at-feels so sorry about that. I promise it'll go back to cheerfulness soon :)**

No matter how tight the Doctor holds her and no matter how many times he whispers her name, Clara Oswald does not wake and does not recognise him.  
Her small, perfect face is now as pale as the ghost of Caliburn House, and her lips are tinting slowly bluer as she still does not breathe, but rather screams and yells and cries.  
The Doctor has never felt so utterly useless in all his lives. Clara has helped him, saved him, over and over again through the last few months, and now that it's his turn to assist her through trouble and pain _that is really his fault_, he is less-than useless.  
Clara's screams shatter through the air like a glass fragmenting, a sound filled with hurt and fear. "_Help,_" she whispers now, as her body begins to shake harder than ever, until she's almost hard for the Doctor to hold.  
He takes a sharp breath, knowing there is no other option now. Gently but firmly, he places one of his hands on each side of her head, resting a few fingers against each temple.  
_A door once opened may be passed through in either direction._  
Clara may certainly find things out about him he does not wish her to see through this process, but no alternative remains.  
He closes his eyes and enters her nightmare.

The first thing that becomes apparent to the Doctor is that Clara thinks she is awake. Not with him, not here in the TARDIS, certainly – but somewhere else entirely.  
The second thing he realises is that she not only believes, but _knows _she is going to die. The third thing he notices is that he has seen this nightmare – this _memory_ – before. But not from here: not from the perspective of the sassy, beautiful Victorian governess who is falling from a cloud. He shares recollections of this time also, but his are from the perspective of the slowly disappearing face thirty feet above her in the sky, a figure screaming her name.  
With an extra force of effort, the Doctor infiltrates Clara's thoughts further, stepping out of her eyes and into the dream itself.  
He is now a hologram, standing vertically beside the falling Clara Oswin Oswald, who cannot see him. Her brown hair whispers around her face, snow drifts past her dress, and her features seem oddly peaceful. Her thoughts echo through his own head too, though: _Help. Afraid. Falling. Crying. Box. Safe. Children. Ice. Cloud. Snow. London. Life. End. Death… Doctor._  
That last word, over and over and over again, each time accompanied by a different emotion. _Sadness. Fear. Hope... Love._  
The Doctor cannot bear to watch this Clara fall again; he retreats back inside her head.  
So really, in a way, where he could not be the first time he was present at this moment, the Doctor is right with Clara just before she dies. He's even there when she chooses the prettiest star in the sky and fixes her eyes upon it, the last sight to see before the end.

The Doctor opens his eyes, back in his Timelord body, no longer within Clara's almost-memories. The real, living Clara – _his _Clara – is now still within his arms, and for a terrified moment, he thinks she may have died.  
After a second, however, he realises she is breathing. Not screaming, anymore, though. A few stray tears dance away from under her eyelids, sliding down her pale white cheeks.  
"Clara," the Doctor whispers, shaking her gently. "Clara."  
The girl sighs gently, before her eyes flicker open. For a moment, it's like she doesn't even see the Doctor. Then her vision drifts into focus and she recognises him.  
"Doctor," she murmurs, exhausted and terrified. "Doctor, I'm falling…"  
"No you're not," he assures her, pulling her from her cradled position in his arms up into a hug. "No you're not, my Impossible Girl."  
"But it wasn't a dream," she whispers, too tired and too drained to even hug him back, to do anything but lean against his chest and listen to the beating of his hearts. "It was a memory."  
"I know. But not your memory, Clara Oswald. Which is why it has become a nightmare," the Doctor says.  
"But – why do I have it at all?" she mumbles, confused.  
The Doctor sighs. "Because, Clara, the thing about some memories… especially ones of unfinished, unresolved events… they _must be _remembered in order to settle."  
"It's never been that bad before," she replies weakly, still unwilling or unable to move.  
"I figured not," the Doctor admits. "Angie and Artie would have been terrified if they'd seen something like that."  
She nods. "Other ones… once, there was one where I was captured… and turned into a machine… but I never finished that dream. I don't know why. I've had bits of the falling one before, too… over and over again, but I've never _died _in it before… I just keep getting tugged off this cloud… And you're there, Doctor, there's _always_ you…"  
He nods. "Yes."  
"Whose memories are they, Doctor? Who is the girl whose life and pain I have to keep reliving? What happened to the Girl from the Sky?" Clara asks urgently, clearly more worried for the person she believes she is surviving the memories of rather than the nightmares themselves.  
"I don't know whose memories they are," he lies. "I think the TARDIS might accidentally be merging things, bonding memories of me, like you saw in the dream, with other people's thoughts. Like Photoshop, but with… nightmares. I don't know whose deaths you're having to remember, Clara, but I promise I will never let you have a fate like that."  
_Because I already have. Twice. You died twice because of me and now you're dying again, inside your head. And I'm going to make you safe. My Clara. My Impossible Girl.  
_She nods, almost believing him. "How much more? How many more nightmares?"  
"I don't know," the Doctor says, and this time, those words aren't lies. Will she remember every bad thing that has ever happened to either Oswin or the other Clara? Or only their final moments? Perhaps every second they spend with him?  
Clara looks up at him. "Ok," she mutters. Then she smiles slightly, and it occurs to him how she's beautiful, even when she's exhausted. "I rarely ever wake up more tired than when I feel asleep in the first place."  
"You should go back to sleep; you need it," the Doctor advises, but she shakes her head rapidly, almost scared.  
"No," she says hurriedly. "I don't ever want to go to sleep again."  
"I can't promise the nightmares won't come back," he tells her quietly. "But I can promise that I'll be right here, ok, Clara? I won't leave."  
After a moment of gazing up at him, as if deciding if he's telling the truth or not, Clara nods. "Ok, Doctor," she whispers.  
And she closes her eyes again. At least ten minutes pass before he's sure she's asleep. He could put her down, back on the bed to sleep by herself, and he could return to his chair. But she's warm and beautiful and might wake if he moves her (or at least, that's how he justifies it to himself, though it's mostly because of the first two).  
Clara looks so peaceful, lying there, her head resting against his shoulder as colour gradually returns to her face. He notices the way her fingers curl lightly around the edge of his jacket, and how she frowns slightly in her sleep when a lock of hair drifts onto her face.  
But his hearts break and the silence is broken when the crying and screaming starts again.

**A/N: sorry, could I just ask - how old would everyone guess I am by my writing? Just curious to see what the general idea is.**


	16. Chapter 16

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Doctor Who**

**BRIEF: this is back to fluffiness.**

The Doctor checks his watch. It's been eleven hours since Clara first lay down, though she's only managed to get about six hours sleep in between nightmares. He shifts her gently in his arms, gazing down at her.  
Her cheek rests lightly against his chest, her breaths ghosting over his shirt. Clara's face looks even more pale than perhaps it really is in contrast to her dark, damp hair (he'd had to wake her up using a bucket of water at one point). Her hands are curled tightly into small fists, one placed between his hearts and the other pressed lightly between her temple and his arm.  
The Doctor sighs. The nightmares had got steadily worse over the course of the evening – she'd died again as Clara for the last time when he'd been unable to save her in Victorian London. It had been both reassuring and heartbreaking to sense her emotions at the time as he relived the moments in a dream state with _his _Clara. The governess had been both incredibly happy and impossibly sad. And full of a strange kind of hope. Happy, that this man, this Doctor, had finally left his cloud. Sad that she would not get to spend the rest of the days that should have been beside him. But it was the sense of hope the Doctor himself could not fathom. The hope and been voiced in a single thought in Clara Oswin Oswald's head before she passed away: _And he hardly ever hears me. But this time, this was the day the Doctor listened._  
Later, too, his Clara had dreamed of Oswin Oswald, the girl who became a machine. The wonderful, the clever, the human Dalek that saved his life. Who died.  
The Doctor checks his wristwatch again – he's set it to Clara's body clock. For her, it's around eight in the morning. There will be no more nightmares today. Besides, he thinks that they're over now. No more memories to dream of, anyway. Though there is the chance that there will be re-runs.  
Carefully, he sets Clara down on the bed and gets up, jumping down the stairs four at a time (simply because he's the Doctor, the Last of the Timelords, the Predator, the Oncoming Storm and he _can_) and leaving the room. She'll be alright on her own for a while; there are some things he has to do.

When Clara wakes up, the first thing she sees is the stars. Which is strange, as she's very sure she's been asleep a while, or at least, it's been a while since she first tried to go to sleep. She rolls over, rubbing her eyes gently, realising where she is and how the room is designed to look like it's in deep space.  
Clara vaguely remembers being laid down alone maybe half an hour earlier, but didn't wake up properly at the time; rather like when she was little and fell asleep in the car, and her parents would carry her up to the house.  
She sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and getting up, swaying slightly. She's exhausted.  
Clara loosely ties her hair back with the tie she has around her wrist, and descends down the stairs out of the Doctor's room, though not before taking a moment to glance around again and take in how beautiful a place really is.  
She wonders where the Timelord is, right this moment, and sets off to find him, wandering through the TARDIS corridors and hoping the ship will lead her to him.  
Eventually, she finds him, in one of the kitchens, making a Jammie Dodger pie. "Morning, Doctor," she says tiredly.  
"Clara! Hello," he replies brightly, though she can see in his eyes an appraising look: he's working out whether she's really ok enough to be on her feet. "How are you?" he asks.  
She shrugs, sliding onto one of the kitchen chairs. He whirls around quickly, placing a couple of tea in front of her. She smiles gratefully and cradles the mug in her hands; it's the one she drank from the first day they met, Clara realises. The Doctor still has it.  
She thinks for a moment, deciding how to answer, soaking up the warmth of the tea through her fingers. "I feel like I've had the flu, a really bad bout concentrated into one night," she admits.  
He nods in understanding, sitting down carefully next to her and wrapping an arm gently around her shoulders. She leans back against his chest, resting her head on his collarbone.  
"Drink up, Clara, the tea will make you feel better," he encourages.  
She nods, taking a sip. They sit in companionable silence for a while as Clara slowly drinks the tea. When she places the empty mug down, the Doctor hugs her close and asks, "Will you let me wipe the memories of the nightmares, Clara?"  
She thinks for a moment. "I – I don't…"  
"I'm sorry Clara," he says, "I really am… But I do have to. You can't – you can't remember things like that."  
She frowns slightly, not understanding. "Doctor?"  
He smiles softly and sadly. "Do you trust me, Clara Oswald?"  
Clara nods immediately. "Of course I trust you, Doctor."  
"Then please believe me when I say those nightmares are things for another day," he asks of her.  
Finally, she nods, and he hugs her tighter.  
They stand up, and he rests his fingers on her temples, asking her to close her eyes. Using his mind, he tugs the memories from her brain, through his fingers and out into the air. It is easier when thought of as a physical process, he finds.  
However, thought extraction is a highly trying process on the mind, and after a moment, Clara collapses.  
Quickly, the Doctor gathers her up in his arms and carries her to the Control Room, resting her carefully on the couch while he flies the TARDIS. He phones ahead to the Maitlands, of course, and provides instructions for the children.  
Ten minutes later, he carries Clara's sleeping form through the back door and up to her room, assisted (or more correctly, hindered) by concerned Angie and Artie.  
He lays Clara gently on her bed, making sure she's comfortable and giving her a quick kiss before leaving her room and going down to meet the children in the kitchen.  
"What happened?" Artie asks, worry seeping into his voice.  
The Doctor sighs, rubbing his brow. "The nightmares you told me about – Clara's nightmares. They… they weren't _just _dreams… Look, I can't explain it to either of you, but the point is… I erased them. From her mind. You _can't _stuff up this time, you two, and let slip about the fact that she had nightmares ever, ok? _You_ _can't ever tell her_." Tears almost spring to his eyes as he remembers the last time he said those exact words about Donna Noble, nearly three hundred years ago. Such a very long while ago, but Timelords never forget.  
"Why not keep her in the TARDIS? Dad still thinks you're on a road trip, and he'll be home from work in a few hours," Angie reminds the Doctor.  
He shrugs. "She needed to be out of the TARDIS for the nightmares to settle down. Plus, I kind of need your help… Thinking of an excuse… why would she suddenly have no memories of the last few days?"  
"She ate anti-memory chocolate on Mars," Artie suggests excitedly.  
The Doctor rolls his eyes. "Don't be _silly, _Artie." The ten year old's face falls. "Memory Chocolate is from Jupiter."  
It is now Angie's turn to roll her eyes. "Just pretend the whole day didn't happen. You're in a _time machine, _for god's sake, just put her in her bed."  
The Doctor shakes his head, however. "The reason I took her for the 'road trip' was _because _of the nightmares. Now she has no idea why she's with me in the TARDIS."  
"Maybe because you two are so totally in love and are allowed to spend time together when it's not a Wednesday?" Angie prompts.  
The Doctor finds himself nodding before snapping out of it and straightening his bowties self-consciously. "Hey," he mutters.  
"Oh, quit denying it," Angie replies in an almost bored voice.  
Artie watches the exchange with interest. "You could pretend it was for my birthday," the kid pipes up in a small voice.  
Both Angie and the Doctor turn to him curiously, so he ploughs on. "My birthday is next week. You could pretend she came with you to get me an outer-space present."  
The Doctor grins. "Excellent. That'll work. We'll go space shopping and everything and she won't suspect a thing."

Just before Clara wakes, the Doctor says goodbye to Angie and Artie and carries the Impossible Girl back to his magnificent machine, and places her gently in one of the cots in the medical bay. He pilots the TARDIS into the time vortex, before returning to her side and taking her hand.  
After another few minutes, the pale brunette girl wakes, brushing her hair out of her face and sitting up, gazing up at him, clearly very disoriented.  
"What…?" she begins, trailing off, trying to focus on him while rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.  
The Doctor's too busy thinking about how adorable she looks right now to answer for a moment. "Right. Yes. Sorry. You sort of… fell asleep on your feet. I scanned you, you're fine, you're just tired… have you not been sleeping well recently?" the Doctor quickly covers his lie with an enquiry.  
Clara shakes her head. "Not really, no. Sorry. I don't know why I just fell asleep, that's something little kids do, just drop on the floor whenever they happen to be tired."  
The Doctor frowns slightly. "That's what _I_ do. When I get too tired to stand up, I just find the nearest comfy spot in the TARDIS, and go to sleep."  
Even in her only slightly-awake state, Clara Oswald still has the energy to roll her eyes at him. "Don't you have a room?"  
At first the question surprises him, before he remembers _just _how much of her memory he wiped. "Yes, of course," he tells her. "I'll show you it sometime."  
She quirks an eyebrow at him, earning her a quick _"shut up" _before he's grabbing her hand and hauling her to her feet.  
"Where we going, then?" she asks as he tugs her down the corridor. "Aliens? Prisons? Foreign planets?"  
"Nope," the Doctor tells her sternly. "You're too tired for that – we're going shopping!" Catching sight of her less-than-impressed expression, he backpedals quickly. "For Artie!" he explains. "We're going to get him a birthday present!"  
Clara's expression lightens considerably.

First off, they go to Radical 3, a space mall they've been to once before, which has a nice atmosphere and plenty of things that would interest a young boy. They get help from shop assistants as to what they should buy – money isn't a problem, but the Doctor really has no idea what to get a kid, and Clara doesn't know what's on offer.  
The third time someone implies or explicitly acknowledges that they're a couple, they give up on the awkward denials and just nod and smile. Anyway, Clara's pretty sure the people they corrected didn't believe them: besides, the fact that the Doctor and her are holding hands probably isn't helping their case.  
Stuff it, Clara decides eventually, they _are _actually a couple, anyway.  
They end up buying a few small things from Radical 3 before stopping off at The Interplanetary & Space Association of Jammie Dodgers and Tea for something to eat.  
From the way they are ushered to a VIP table and given absolutely anything they desire for free (as well as the name and purpose of this space station), Clara develops a very deep suspicion the Doctor founded and/or owns this place.  
She just chuckles at the idea, however, and enjoys the tea and bsicuits, listening happily to the Doctor jabber on about the original Jammie Dodger.  
After he pauses for a while, Clara asks, "How are you today, Doctor?"  
He frowns at her. "What?"  
She sighs. "We do an awful lot of world saving, Doctor, but we rarely properly _talk _to each other like normal people. I thought I might try it."  
"I'm not a normal person," he reminds her.  
"Yes. But I am. I'm Clara Oswald, I'm as regular as they come. There's nothing particularly special about me, so just for once you're going to pretend the same is true for you -"  
The Doctor silences her with a kiss. It drags on for several moments, accompanied by the falling-flying sensation Clara doesn't think she'll ever grow used to, but associates with each time they touch.  
"There a lot of special things about you, Clara," he tells her, holding her hand. "You're funny and beautiful and brave and utterly, utterly selfless and wonderful, so don't you _ever_ go saying you're not special."  
She raises her eyebrows. "Ok, Doctor," before she decides she wants to kiss him again, and so she does.

They end up buying Artie a set of toy racing cars that fly around when you flick a little blue lever on the controls that creates an anti-grav bubble around the tiny machines. This way, Clara reasons, Artie can pretend they're normal Hot Wheels figures while his father is there, and use them properly when he's alone. Granted, if Artie forgets to be careful, the Doctor can always disable the flight function with his Sonic Screwdriver.  
That afternoon, they lie back on one of the couches in Clara's favourite of the numerous TARDIS living rooms, and watch a movie.  
It's normal, it's domestic and Clara's almost sure that the Doctor won't be able to sit through it. Originally, she'd planned to watch the movie alone, but the Doctor had just tagged along with her. He'd lasted ten minutes in so far, and wasn't showing any signs of discomfort or boredom.  
Clara focuses on the movie, but the Doctor's attention wavers between the television screen and the girl curled up beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. When he's almost given up on the movie altogether, Clara turns to him, pausing the movie, and says, "I think it was the blonde girl. She's got the right kind of… I don't know…"  
The Doctor remembers they're watching a murder mystery, and quickly says, "Oh. Yes. Probably. I don't know, I'm rubbish at guessing this kind of thing."  
Clara raises an eyebrow at him suspiciously, but flicks the movie back on and continues watching.  
The Doctor smiles to himself. Even though they're not saving civilisations or re-inventing the English language, he thinks moments like these are pretty damn perfect. Or at least, Clara is.

**A/N: the general consensus was that I'm between 16 and 25.  
I'm actually younger than 15 by about the same amount that Oswin was a Dalek for, bit less. so yeah, that explains the quality of the writing. Also, I use fanfic as a kind of outlet, where the writing standard doesn't have to be so high as for my school work and novel. But this is also why TYCB doesn't rise about a T rating. **

**This is also my first fanfiction, so any complaints, please pass on and I'll try to fix things as best as I can.**

**Thanks so much,  
x.**


	17. Chapter 17

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Doctor Who**

**ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: I know other fics similar to this have been done, but I really think it's a cute idea and I've wanted to do one like this for months, so... here it is...**

"And you've got to tell the Doctor I'm not here or something," Clara weakly instructs Angie, who's standing concerned in her doorway. "Say I've gone out or… or something."  
Angie bites her lip. "He won't buy it – it's school holidays, _and _it's a Wednesday. You're _never _out on Wednesdays."  
Clara rubs her eyes, pushing her face back into her pillow and mumbling, "Well, you're fifteen and a very excellent liar, Angie, so just make something up, ok? Please? Just send him away."  
"Ok," Angie replies, and Clara hears her footsteps echoing away.  
Clara tugs her blanket over her head and lies there feeling awful. Little fires burn on her cheeks and forehead, and a thick fog of pain and confusing hangs around inside her mind.  
She tries to sleep but the cramps in her stomach make it very difficult to get comfy again. And she's worried, too, that the Doctor will come. That would be awkward. Still, she can hope he'll misjudge and miss this Wednesday entirely – it's happened before. He might show up tomorrow, or Friday, or simply not at all.  
It's not that she doesn't _want _to see him; quite the contrary. Clara would love just to be with him. But she doesn't want _him _to see _her_.  
Finally, she drops off to sleep, only to be woken an hour later by the sound of the TARDIS materialising. _Damn._

The Doctor bounds up the stepping stones that lead to the Maitland's front door four at a time, eager to collect Clara. He's got an _especially_ great planet to show her, she'll love it… a planet with crimson skies, exactly the shade she loves… he won't mention how long he had to look to find one quite like it, though…  
He rings the doorbell quickly, fidgeting with his bowtie. In a few moments, the door will swing open to reveal Clara, her eyebrows raised, with some quip to make. God, he loves her. That thought echoes around his head for a moment before he realises what he means. He then shrugs as he acknowledges that it's true.  
Disappointingly, however, it is Angie who answers his rings. "Hello," she says.  
"Ah, hello, Angie, is Clara there?" the Doctor's really asking that to be polite, as he _knows _Clara is. She's probably upstairs helping Artie with something. Clara is _always _here on Wednesdays – it's their day.  
"No," Angie replies, shaking her head as if this is obvious.  
"What?" The Doctor mutters, frowning. "But it's Wednesday."  
"Yeah." Angie tells him. "And Clara's gone. She had to… go and see Kate. Yeah… She's helping Kate move house. Unforeseen circumstances. Couldn't be missed. She said to ask if it's ok for you to come Saturday."  
The Doctor glances behind Angie carefully, as if expecting Clara to pop up behind her. "Of course I can come Saturday, I've got a time machine. But…"  
"Artie!" Angie calls over her shoulder, and her brother runs into view.  
"Yes, Angie?" he asks. "Can this be quick? I'm trying to work out what my birthday presents are."  
Angie rolls her eyes, though she ruffles his hair. "You shouldn't be, shortie. Those are supposed to be a _surprise._ Anyway, the Doctor doesn't seem to believe me that _Clara is at Kate's._"  
Artie's forehead furrows in confusion. "Clara is at _Kate's_? I thought she was -"  
Angie quickly cuts him off by wrapping a hand over his mouth. "Just as I thought, Clara must have forgotten to tell him. Isn't that right Artie?"  
"No one told me _anything_," the kid assures her.  
"Ok, Artie, you can go now," Angie tells him. He nods and runs off, back down the hall and up the stairs.  
"Clara!" Artie calls. "Clara!" Angie face-palms as she hears her brother run into their nanny's room, and they can clearly hear him having one side of a conversation, though the replies are inaudible: "_Oh right… oh, ok… whoops… sorry, Clara… yes, I won't say anything…_"  
"Idiot," Angie breathes.  
The Doctor glares suspiciously at her. "Clara _is _up there, isn't she?"  
"No," Angie tries weakly. "Artie's on the phone."  
"The phone is there," the Doctor points out, indicating the handset that rests on the small table beside Angie, below the mirror.  
"On his mobile?" Angie invents desperately, knowing full well Clara will _absolutely kill her _if she stuff this up.  
"Artie is ten, he doesn't have a mobile."  
"Fine, he's on _my _mobile."  
"Your mobile is either fused to your hand or your pocket; you may love your brother, but there is no way you'd let him use it."  
"Well, _damn._" Angie mutters, truly stuffed. She uses her last resort, then, and as he tries to move past her, she physically blocks the door. "Nope. You're not allowed up. Clara said so," she says, abandoning all pretence.  
"Why?"  
"Cos."  
The Doctor frowns deeply, before turning on his heel. "Fine," he decides, after a long while. "Ok. I'll leave."  
"Really?" Angie asks, surprised.  
"Yeah. I'm going. See, watch me leave," he tells her, walking quickly back down the garden path. Angie breathes out, her eyes following him as he enters the TARDIS; she'd expected more of an argument, at least.  
The ship dematerialises it, the Doctor quickly flicking levers and pushing buttons within. "_Watch me leave…_" he murmurs, before triumphantly hammering a small plastic panel. "_And now watch me come back, Angie Maitland._"  
Back on the doorstep, Angie frowns as she hears the TARDIS noise again, this time from upstairs. "Oh _no,_ he didn't," she gasps, running back inside the house.

As he parks the TARDIS neatly in Clara's bedroom, the Doctor wonders why Clara wouldn't want to see him. Has he perhaps made her angry? That doesn't seem right. He doesn't _remember _doing anything that might have offended her.  
He steps out of the TARDIS doors and frowns in surprise as he sees Clara's form curled up on her bed, tucked unmoving beneath the covers.  
"I told Angie to tell you I was out," her voice mutters in a muffled way, as the figure under the quilt shifts but does not surface.  
"She did. She lied quite well, but Artie kind of stuffed it up," the Doctor replies, hovering uncertainly between leaning on the TARDIS and sitting on the edge of her bed.  
Clara groans. "Figured," she mumbles tiredly.  
There is a pause for a moment, before the Doctor asks nervously, "What's wrong, Clara?"  
Finally, her head pokes out from underneath her sheets; her hair curled this way and that. Her expression is caught between being exasperated, amused and frustrated. "What do you think, Doctor? I'm sick."  
"Ah," he replies quickly, and almost inaudibly. He should have seen that coming. "Why?"  
She rolls her eyes. "I didn't _choose _to be sick, Chin Boy. It just happens, I caught it off Artie who got it from school. I'm human. I get ill."  
"Hmm," the Doctor frowns. That's a bit silly. Clara shouldn't have to be sick, not ever, and especially not on a Wednesday.  
After another moment, Clara asks, "Can you go, please?"  
"What?" the Doctor replies. "Why?"  
Clara sighs. "Because I'm sick and really just need to sleep and this time, Doctor, ironically considering your title, there really _is _nothing I can do. Please just come back on Saturday?"  
He frowns again. "Will you really be this sick for three days?"  
"Yep. I've had it since yesterday, and I don't get better from flus very quickly. Not sure why, it's pretty rubbish. If I'm not better by Saturday, try Monday, and if not then, next Wednesday. If in a week I'm still sick, there's probably something extra especially wrong with me anyway, so things will have to be put off for a while regardless. That's unlikely though."  
"But there must be something I can do? I hate seeing you all… all… sad…"  
"I'm not _sad_, Doctor," Clara almost laughs but it comes out as a horrible cough. "I'm _sick. _There really is nothing you can do but let me sleep."  
The Doctor brightens immediately. "There _is _something I can do for you, Clara Oswald! I'll be back in a second, you wait right here."  
Clara makes a small noise again. "I'm hardly going to go anywhere, Chin."

The Doctor hops back into the TARDIS, quickly flicking a few switches that will take him to New New York. Those people sure owe him more than a major favour. He'll just dash into one of their numerous hospitals and grab Clara some highly advanced medicine.  
The Doctor frowns – it's really his fault in the first place that she's sick. Withdrawing the memories of the nightmares from her mind would have physically drained her to the extreme; her immune system would have been greatly lowered after that and therefore more susceptible to diseases for the next few weeks.  
He arrives at the _New New York Public Health Centre _within ten minutes, and after a quarter of an hour negotiating about medicine for a human, he gets what he needs.  
Everything is finished up pretty quick (apparently the workers of the hospital are just as aware of how much they owe him as he is), and within half an hour, he's materialised his ship back in Clara's bedroom.  
"Clara, I'm ba-" the Doctor starts, only to see no Clara in her bed, and Angie perched on the edge of the mattress, clearly waiting for him.  
"I heard your box," she tells him. "So I figured I'd come up and meet you."  
"Where's Clara? Did you move her?" the Doctor asks, as Artie wanders into the room.  
"Hello, Doctor," he mutters belatedly, "I thought I heard your ship."  
"Where's Clara?" the Doctor repeats, his gaze flicking between the two children who gaze solemnly up at him.  
"Clara's not here, Doctor. She's been gone for days and days," Artie says, as if curious as to how the Doctor was unaware of this – he was her _boyfriend, _after all.  
"What do you mean? I've only been gone half an hour, it should be about… _thirty seconds _after I last left," he calculates, checking his watch.  
"Well, it's not," Angie tells him. "It's been nearly a whole week. She said you must of over-shot, just before she left."  
The Doctor quickly runs his hands through his hair. "What do you mean, 'left'? Clara doesn't just 'leave'."  
Artie looks upset. "She's not on holiday, Doctor. Clara didn't want to go, but Dad had to take her to hospital."  
"_Hospital_?" the Doctor yelps. "What? WHY?"  
Angie frowns. "She was sick, Doctor. And she didn't get better, she kept getting worse. The doctor – a real doctor, that is, a medical one – said there was something unusual wrong with her immune system. Stuff just went downhill from there."  
The Doctor presses his palm to his face, quickly trying to think of something to do. This was bad. Really, properly bad. Very, very bad indeed.  
"Which hospital is she at?" he asks immediately.  
Artie tells him instantly, and then the Doctor piles the two children into his ship and sets them on a direct course for the storeroom closest to Clara's hospital ward. He can't go back and help her, unfortunately - that would be crossing his own timeline.  
Soon, he, Angie and Artie are squeezing out of the small broom cupboard in which the TARDIS has landed and out into the stark white hall of a pristine hospital. "I don't like hospitals," the Doctor murmurs darkly.  
"No one does," Angie tells him.  
The three of them set off, noting the numbers on each ward they pass, until they come to the one where Angie says Clara is. Quickly glancing over his shoulder, the Doctor urgently opens the door and they all file inside.  
There are just four patients in the room; it only takes him a moment to spy Clara: lying still in a plain, firm white bed with her dark hair splayed out around her in contrast to the clinically clean sheets and her pale face. He practically gallops over to her, seeing the thin plastic tube that runs under her nose and her closed eyes, and he ruffles the back of his hair with worry.  
Quickly, he whips out his Sonic and scans her. "What is it?" Artie asks urgently. "She's going to be ok, right? The doctors will fix her up just fine, won't they? Doctor?"  
The Doctor turns on his heel and paces around a bit, tapping his screwdriver against his forehead. "Bad, bad, bad…"  
"Doctor!" Angie grabs his arm and spins him to face her. "You can't just go off in your own world like that, ok! She's our friend, too. Don't just mumble to yourself, tell us what's going on!"  
The Doctor stares at her for a moment. She'd grown up rather a lot in the last few months; going from self-absorbed teenager to someone more mature, responsible and someone who cared visibly a lot more for her family. "Right," he says. "Of course, Angie. Clara's got a very, very bad case of pneumonia, which is potentially fatal." Tears begin to spill from Artie's eyes when he says this. "It won't be, though," the Doctor assures him immediately. "If she takes this medicine," – he lifts the small box of capsules he's brought from New New York – "she'll be fine in a couple of days. But this treatment is mostly for the early stages – it's not strong enough to cure her completely. She'll have to fight the rest off by herself. If I can just go back to New New Earth and get her more treatment…"  
"No," Artie says. "What if you get it wrong again and show up in three weeks' time? Bad things could have happened by then. You're staying here."  
"Excuse me," a voice calls from behind them. The owner is a petit African-American nurse holding a clipboard, around the same height and build as Clara. "You're outside of visiting hours."  
The Doctor fumbles in his pockets and whips out his psychic paper. "Ha! I'm not a visitor, see?"  
The nurse frowns at the paper. "It just says that you're Clara's boyfriend and want to take care of her."  
"Right, sorry, wrong card," the Doctor mutters, slapping himself on the forehead – damn the psychic paper, saying his thoughts like it's supposed to, rather than inventing an excuse like he needs it to. "See, now? I'm Doctor John Smith, Specialist of Respiratory Ailments and Afflictions."  
"Of course, I'll leave you to your work," the nurse nods and takes her leave.  
The Doctor quickly ducks over the Clara's bedside, taking her small hand in his own larger one, and gently strokes her cheek with his other hand.  
After a few moments, her eyes drift open. "Doctor," she breathes, her eyelids flickering.  
"Hey, Clara," he murmurs, carefully cupping her face with his fingers. "I brought some medicine for you, but you're going to have to swallow it. Can you do that for me?"  
She nods her head almost imperceptibly, and he takes the cup of water off her bedside table and raises it to her lips, encouraging her to take a sip and Angie and Artie watch on. Once she's taken a small mouthful, he slips the medicine between her lips and squeezes her hand while she tries to swallow. Her breath catches and she coughs, but manages to get it down.  
"There we go," the Doctor whispers as her eyes close again and she sleeps once more.  
They remain with Clara for a very long time, the Doctor even after Angie and Artie have gone home with their father (the Doctor called Mr Maitland to pick the children up when he returned from work).

Clara opens her eyes, _fairly _sure she's been hit over the head with a large hammer or something. Perhaps run over by a car. Either way, every single bit of her hurts in every way imaginable. It feels as if someone has placed a ton of bricks upon her chest, and filled her lungs with cement, and is still expecting her to breathe.  
The sunlight that dances into her eyes makes her dizzy, so she weakly turns her head away from the window. And then she sees the Timelord beside her, who is glancing around the room, clearly not having realised she's awake.  
"Hello, Doctor," she mutters.  
He jumps, and she chuckles. "Good morning, Clara. Are you feeling better?"  
"Much," she says, propping herself up on her elbows. "Not good, but far better than before."  
He nods in understanding.  
"So we off to outer space today, then?" Clara asks, slumping back down onto her pillow as she's too tired to really hold herself up for very long.  
"No," the Doctor tells her. "We're going to stay exactly here and you're going to get better."  
"_We_? Won't you get bored?" Clara asks, raising an eyebrow half-heartedly.  
"Nope," he says. "We can talk. About normal things. Like normal people."  
"Ok," she replies doubtfully.  
"And after that, once you're feeling a bit better, however long that takes, we can hop back in the TARDIS and go see someplace. A very calm place, mind, no monsters or anything. Just to sit and look."

The next say, Clara and the Doctor are leaning on the back wall of the exterior of the parked TARDIS, the dark blue paint cool behind their backs. The planet they're on is slightly cold (ironic as its name literally translates to 'Planet of the Sky Fire'), so the Doctor has brought a big, thick patchwork blanket with them that's draped over the pair up to their mid-torsos. He can't risk Clara getting sick again by catching a chill.  
The Impossible Girl herself is lying back on his chest, her head resting between his hearts as she partially burrows under the blanket, transfixed by the crimson sunset which eats up the sky. The clouds look to be made of dancing flames and shards of golden mist pierce the heavens. Flocks of bizarre birds climb through the air past the row of six moons, each glowing orb slightly different. This planet is permanently caught with the sun setting, due to a problem with its orbit that occurred many millions of years ago. Clara's eyes try to take in every little detail of the incredible vista.  
It's breath taking beautiful. Though admittedly, the Doctor isn't exactly watching the sunset.

**A/N:  
I may stop TYCB at 20 chapters.**  
**Is that agreeable to everyone? I ****_can_**** happily********keep it going, I just sort of feel that everyone's had enough, you know? One can only stretch a story so far before the readers tire of it.**

**So that'll be this chapter you've just read, plus 3 more and then end. Originally it was going to run indefinitely and possibly even after the hiatus, but I really don't want people starting to get sick of it. In the immortal words of Moffat, "A good *_insert occupation in the entertainment industry here_* knows when to take their curtain call".**

**Thanks very much everyone for sticking with TYCB so long and you've all been amazing, every one of you.**  
**The first of the last 4 chapters should be up within the hour**

**x.**

**PS if you've got an opinion or a prompt for what you'd like to happen next/how you want it to end, please inbox me :)**


	18. Chapter 18

**THANKS FOR ALL YOUR PATIENCE, LOVELY READERS**

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN DOCTOR WHO [sadly. else whouffle would be very, very canon by now]**

* * *

"Why are you nervous?"  
"Watch it," Clara replies, though only mildly dangerously as she toys with the precious loop of silver on her finger. "Besides, I'm not nervous."  
"Yes you are," the Doctor counters, indicating her hands. "You're fiddling with your Mum's ring. You only do that when you're nervous."  
"Shut up," Clara mumbles by way of response, very obviously and purposefully resting her hands down by her sides on the bench on which they sit.  
"Why are you nervous?" he repeats, reminding her vaguely of a tall and gangly preying-mantis as he swoops down to look at her.  
She glares at him, her eyes narrowed. "I believe I just told you that I _wasn't_."  
"And I believe I just proved that you were. It's just a bunch of people who are going to ask you questions like, _'Do you have experience at jobs like this before?'_ You don't even want the position, Clara. Come to think of it, why are you even doing this?" the Doctor asks, adjusting his bow tie.  
Clara sighs. "Because the Maitlands are eventually going to get a new nanny. The adverts are in. And Mr Maitland worked quite hard to get me this interview, so I thought I'd better go."  
"But they haven't _got _a new nanny yet," the Doctor points out, though more for confirmation for himself than as an assurance for her.  
Clara nods. "I know. They will soon, though."  
The Doctor pauses for a moment. He hasn't actually devoted any thought to what might become of Clara once the Maitlands have a new nanny. He'd sort of just assumed she'd come with him, in the TARDIS. Perhaps she wouldn't. Maybe she'd still want a flat on Earth, a place to call home. He bets that they could probably do stuff more often than on just Wednesdays, though. He figures now possibly isn't the best time to bring it up, while they sit across the street from the office building that stretches starkly up against the grey London sky.  
So instead, the Doctor carefully sits down beside her and takes her hand. He doesn't have any intent, really, by it – it just makes him happy and he feels at home beside Clara. The one thing he's not used to having: a place he belongs. And the best bit is, now he's finally found it, the belonging place comes with him. Wherever Clara is.  
"When do you have to go in?" he asks, glancing across at her.  
She checks her watch. "Forty-five minutes. We got here a bit early. We got here before we left, actually, Doctor."  
The Timelord shrugs. "Mistakes happen. But the point is, we've got loads of time. Oodles. We're swimming in it. Absolutely. What-say we pop off to the Nishtafraine Galaxy for a spin on an _actual _quint-ro-cycle? Hey?"  
But Clara shakes her head quickly. "Nah. We might misjudge it on the way back and I'll miss the interview. That won't look good for me or Mr Maitland. The truth is, Doctor – I really _do _need this interview. I _do _need this job."  
"Why?" he asks, confused.  
She rolls her eyes. "To pay the rent at wherever I'm going to live next. I reckon in about a month, the Maitlands will have a new nanny. I'll probably still end up baby-sitting a lot, as I doubt they'll find someone young who's good with kids and social who's also willing to sacrifice every night of the week to look after two children, and Angie and Artie will probably still want to be around me some, so I'll still go over to their place. But I'll need to rent out a flat somewhere so I still have a place," she explains. For someone with so much knowledge of the universe, the Doctor has extraordinarily little grasp of the teasers of everyday life.  
"Why don't you come and live with me, in the TARDIS?" the Doctor suggests, despite his resolution not to press her.  
Clara looks surprised. "Are you sure that's exactly what you want? That would be me, there, all the time…"  
The Doctor nods his head vigorously. If someone could sum 'exactly what he wanted', _'Clara, there, all the time'_ would probably be it. "Of course," he says.  
Clara bites her lip and dammit, for the Doctor it's even more adorable than the button babies of _HH5+/cloud_. "I'd better not," she decides finally. Clara laughs as his face falls. "I don't mean completely! I'd love to spend all day with you, every day! It's just my family… my Dad, and the Maitlands, they want to be able to visit me… to know where I am… And I think, also… I need a place to come back to. A place to call home. Properly. One that sits still and doesn't move. And I don't think your _Snogbox_ would have me on a permanent basis."  
The Doctor's actually a bit lost, now. More than a bit. "So… if the Maitlands get a new nanny, you'll move into another house but be able to come with me on more than just Wednesdays?"  
Clara nods. "Yeah. And sort of… pop back home for visits, like the reverse of what we do now."  
"When can they get a new nanny?"  
Clara laughs again, and really, the Doctor would do absolutely anything to hear that sound, even if it meant never eating another Jammie Dodger or wearing a fez ever again. "Down boy," she tells him, even though she's grinning too. "But I still need a way to pay the rent, see."  
The Doctor shrugs. It's an obstacle easily surpassed. "I have a Sonic Screwdriver and a TARDIS. Money isn't exactly hard to make. I can either make the notes or just… _zap_ your bank account."  
Clara scrunches up her nose. "Nah. That'd feel like stealing. It'd be weird."  
The Oncoming Storm is stumped for a moment. But he's not losing this one. He _will _convince Clara to come away with him as much as humanely possible if it's the last thing he does. "Aha! What if it was like a wage… for a job… Clara Oswald, what if you considered it pay for saving the world?"  
"Really properly seriously?" she checks, raising an eyebrow.  
"Really properly seriously," he confirms without missing a beat.  
Finally, after frowning hard for a moment, Clara nods. "You got yourself a deal, Chin Boy. Provided I can somehow pay rent to have _somewhere_, I'll travel with you properly. But I'm still doing this interview for Mr Maitland."  
"Ok."  
"And we've still got thirty-seven minutes, do you want to go and grab a coffee?"  
The Doctor frowns slightly, licking his lips and trying to recall the taste of the beverage as he flicks his hair out of his eyes. "Maybe. Do I like coffee? I might like coffee. Of course, there's a very great chance I _hate _coffee. I simply wouldn't know."  
"Alright, mister," Clara laughs, tugging him up by the hand as she gets off the bench. She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek before they walk off together down the street. "Coffee, interview, then the galaxy of what's-it to ride the what's-its."

Clara leaves Artie and the Doctor playing Jenga in the kitchen with an amused Angie looking on while she goes to open the door for Mr Maitland.  
"Ah, Clara," he says cheerfully, taking off his coat and hanging it up. "Good to see you. How did the interview go? Think you'll get the job?"  
Clara shrugs. "It went as good as they ever go. Fairly well, not brilliantly. But it's alright – the Doctor told me today he's managed to get me a position at the… _travel… _firm where he works."  
Mr Maitland's frown clears slightly. "Oh, excellent! Which firm?"  
Clara's mind goes utterly blank. "Uh… _TARDIS_ _Travel_, I believe it's called…"  
"TARDIS – that's an interesting name," George says.  
"It's an acronym. But the words are in French," she invents quickly. "Something about _Terra Avec…_" Clara runs out of French words that correspond with the 'TARDIS' letters so she gives up, simply pretending to have forgotten. "I'll be working in… um… writing travel magazines. It'll be loads of fun."  
"Well, Clara, that is brilliant news. Fabulous. Now… let's see… Pizza for dinner?" George suggests.  
Clara nods. "Ok. The Doctor and I'll go out and pick it up."

1991 is colder than Clara remembers. Admittedly, last time they came to this year, they'd been in Australia in December swimming at the beach. Now, in the middle of a snowy winter in New York, it feels like not only a different place but a different time.  
"Thank you and have a nice night," the teenage cashier says in a heavy accent.  
"Cheers," Clara says. She was quizzed heavily on her own Lancashire accent by the teen when they ordered. The pizza boxes are warm in her hands (the Doctor offers to carry them for her, but she refuses to relinquish them as they are toasty and smell very nice) as they round the corner and head back to the TARDIS.  
Once they're inside, Clara bursts out laughing. "What is it?" the Doctor asks her curiously, stopping flicking levers for a moment to look at her.  
"It's just… that teenager… if we go chronologically through time, she's about a decade older than me. Isn't that sort of… _weird? _She looked at me and saw an adult, even though really, right now, I'm about two. And she'll never know. It's so… strange. Doesn't that ever occur to you?" Clara says happily, her grin making her whole face light up.  
The Doctor smiles right back. "Guess not. No. Maybe a bit. Wibbly wobbly timey wimey. Everything happens at once inside my head – though that _actually_ happened in real life then, and that was _not _fun. I wonder where you were in that version of reality…"  
Clara shrugs. "I don't know, but we should probably take the pizza back to the kids, else Angie and Artie will eat _us _too."

Mr Maitland picks up the pizza box from the table and reads the printing on the side. "It says _New York,"_ he observes curiously. "_New York Quay Pizzeria, 1991_."  
The children, the Doctor and Clara all take in a quick breath, waiting to see who'll get them out of this first. To everyone's very great surprise, it's Artie. "That's cos everyone seems to like that silly 'vintage' stuff nowadays, Dad. The store is just a spin-off of old-style New York. It's quite a good one, actually."  
Mr Maitlands nods in understanding while Clara, Angie and the Doctor breathe out. Artie smiles smugly to himself. Clara's going to have to watch him from now on, she thinks. All this practice with covering up trips to other planets has made him an excellent liar.

The next day, the doorbell rings at around ten am. Curiously, Clara heads down the hall to open it. Both the kids are at school, Mr Maitland is at work and it's unlikely to be the Doctor. She blinks, only once, on seeing the widely grinning face that greets her.  
"Hi," says the man in an American accent. He's tall and buff, and looks almost like a Ken doll clad in a long dark trench coat and mystery. The guy extends a hand, which Clara takes, a little apprehensively. She expects him to shake it, but instead he kisses it quickly.  
"I'm Captain Jack Harkness," he smiles cheerfully, but also slightly daringly. "I'm here to see the Doctor."  
Clara breathes out. "You know the Doctor?"  
"Course. We're old pals, him and me. We go way back. I'm from Torchwood," the Captain assures her.  
Her eyes widen. Then Clara laughs. "Oh, _that _Jack. Right. The Doctor told me about you."  
Jack quirks his eyebrows suggestively. "Yeah? What did he say?"  
"He said, '_Clara, don't you let him say _hello _to you.'_ I guess I didn't do such a great job at that," Clara tells him.  
Jack laughs happily. "Normally he only tells me that when I'm _already _saying hello. You must be pretty special if he's getting in there in advance."  
Clara raises an eyebrow. "So, Jack – why do you need to find the Doctor?"  
Jack shakes his head. "I don't. He wants to find me. I received, by a rather unconventional method a few days ago, a… well, let's call it a note. It wasn't, but we'll say it was a note. Saying that he wanted to meet with me soon on some very important business. It told me that he'd come find me, and to under no circumstances go to this here address. I guess he knew I'd look him up and find out his new haunts on Earth. Anyway, I was explicitly instructed _not _to be here, so I am," he tells her proudly.  
Clara tucks her hair behind her ear, half-grinning at him. "Why come here, though? What does it do?"  
"Well, I figured that if I wasn't supposed to, there'd be a very good reason. And that if I showed up, he'd follow, because of the reason. I guess I'm looking at the reason," he smiles jauntily. "And she's very, very pretty too, if you don't mind my saying so."  
"I don't mind you're saying so, Captain," Clara teases.  
Jack grins wider. "Excellent. I'll continue to do so then. But, business – I don't suppose you know where the Doctor is?"  
Clara shrugs. "I don't know, but I'll call him for you."  
Jack's eyes widen. "You have his _number_? Why don't _I _get his _number_? Now here's me, all dejected. Tell the old man he _better_ come."  
Clara grins. "One sec."  
She drifts down the hall slightly, pulling out her mobile. She's got the TARDIS on speed dial. After just two rings, he picks up. "Clara?" the Doctor asks from the other end of the line. "Are you ok? What's wrong?"  
"Nothing, Doctor, I'm fine," she giggles. "No, but there's a friend here to see you. Says his name is… _Captain Jack Harkness…_"  
She watches Jack grin as he anticipates the Doctor's reaction. "_Don't _let him flirt with you, Clara."  
"Oi. My life. Anyway, he says that you have something to talk to him about…"  
"Give me a moment, I'll be there thirteen minutes ago," he assures her.  
"Can't do that, that's crossing my timeline," she counters. "I know for a fact you weren't here thirteen minutes ago. So you'll have to come _now_, instead."  
"Fine," the Timelord grumbles.  
Clara hangs up. "He's coming," she tells Jack.  
The Captain grins. "Oh, I bet he is. Very eager for me not to talk to you, I imagine?" Clara nods. "Well, nothing I like better than a Doctor bristling with envy. Can I come in for a cup of tea? Or vodka? Or Matro-Pax Carbonated Hydrogen Shots? Whatever you've got?"  
"Of course," she offers, stepping aside to let him pass into the house. She doesn't really know him, but clearly the Doctor does, and that's enough for her to trust anyone.  
After a heartbeat, she hears the ringing that signifies of the arrival of the TARDIS. Never, she is fairly sure, has the Doctor arrived so promptly.


	19. Chapter 19

**Hey, sorry for the long wait - I was cram studying for exams all week.  
Apologies for the short chapter, it's my birthday and I was busy all day, but I figured some is better than none, right? I'll update very soon though now my exams are over!**

**DISCLAIMER: I really do own nothing. else we'd be canon by now.**

* * *

Clara's just pouring tea when the Doctor bursts into the room.  
On realising there is no immediate, extreme danger of something happening with Clara and Jack, he straightens up, adjusting his bowtie to perfection and nonchalantly flicking his quiff, suddenly embodied by a little more confidence and just a dash of sass. He's just feeling sassy today. He's not sure why. It's a thing that happens sometimes, he supposes, when you're a twelve hundred year old time-and-space travelling alien.  
Clara rolls her eyes, reaching to the cupboard above her head and pulling down a third mug as well as a packet of Jammie Dodgers.  
"Jack!" the Doctor squeaks as the Time Agent pulls him into a bear hug.  
"Doctor!" the Captain exclaims happily. "Looking a little ruffled, aren't ya?"  
The Doctor fiddles with his jacket in a disgruntled manner. "That's because you just throttled me."  
Jack Harkness laughs. "No, you were looking ruffled before then."  
"Yeah, well," the Doctor mutters as Clara brings over the tea and biscuits.  
"Why the rush?" she asks the Doctor cheerfully (and just a touch cheekily), giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.  
"It's Jack," he tells her, as if this explains everything, though can't help but glow a bit from the kiss. Even if it wasn't a proper one.  
"Well spotted. And you're you and I'm me – Jack's _Jack_. This isn't getting us anywhere," Clara raises an eyebrow, greatly enjoying teasing the Doctor.  
The Doctor's hands fly to his bowtie again. "Yes. Well. Anyway, Clara, I need some help from Jack with something… err – _classified…_ so we'll be leaving in the TARDIS, now…"  
"Not so fast," she tells him, catching his hand as the Doctor sets down his tea and turns away. "Why can't I come? Surely it's not 'too dangerous for Clara'? Because if that's why, I swear to _god_…"  
"It's not why," Jack assures her, getting up. "No, I think I can see where this is going… Ok, Doctor, here's the deal – I'll give you the help and advice you need _if _– and only if – you let Miss Clara here come with us."  
"Thank you," Clara says pointedly. "Wait – what advice? Why would you need advice? You're twelve hundred years old."  
The Doctor blushes. "Jack's older," he murmurs.  
"Oi! Am not! Not yet, anyway. Only just celebrated the quadruple one last month, for your information."  
Clara frowns. "You're nearly as old as he is?"  
Jack bows, taking her hand. "And every bit as handsome, ma'am," he offers, quickly brushing his lips across her skin. Clara giggles lightly, because the Captain really is funny.  
Quickly, the Doctor springs between the two, wrapping an arm around each of their shoulders, though he tugs Clara close and holds Jack a bit away. You know. Just to be sure. "Alright, then, Jack, you win. Clara can come, provided you mention nothing of what I need from you."  
"Excellent. But you have to take me somewhere, too," Jack agrees finally.  
Clara's a tad lost and more than a little put out about the Doctor choosing not to share his problems with her, but rather another ancient man. It makes sense, she supposes – lots of sense. But she still wishes that the Timelord felt he was able to tell her anything. He is.  
"Where do you want to go?" the Doctor asks immediately, pulling them all out into the back garden towards the TARDIS, locking up the house with a flick of his screwdriver as he goes.  
"1930's. Peace time. Take me dancing, Doctor," Jack instructs, glancing sneakily at Clara, raising his eyebrows and forming and 'ooh' with his mouth like a child at Christmas.  
"Any particular day?"  
"Saint Patricks' Day."  
"No. Too much drinking. I don't like drinking. Unless it's tea. Tea is good," the Doctor counters, accidentally digressing again.  
Jack chuckles. "Oh, you're no fun, Doctor. You're awfully Victorian and uptight high-collar for a man who's seen a little more than I daresay he'd care to mention, eh?"  
"Not this face round!" the Doctor assures him. "This face I am -"  
"Constantly swinging between impossibly intelligent, ancient and wise, and an immature, nervous little twelve year old?" Clara suggests as they enter the control room.  
"Not always," the Doctor tells her, almost pouting like a kid as he fiddles with a lever, though his eyes are laughing. "Sometimes I am a little bit in between?"  
"What, old, nervous and immature?" Jack asks.  
"Watch it, Jack Harkness, or no dancing for you," the Doctor warns, tapping Jack's shoulder with a wrench. The Captain immediately jumps into a salute.  
"Aye, aye, _sir_!"

Clara was wearing jeans and a shirt, so the Doctor made her go back into the dressing room and change into something that was considered acceptable for women in the 1930's.  
When she returns, she can tell the time travellers are part way through a conversation, though they halt their words when she enters.  
"How's this?" she asks, twirling for them. She's done her hair up in a knot, and is wearing a beautiful little dress that just brushes her knees, as well as tights and flats.  
"Too perfect," Jack flirts jokingly, shaking his head, and Clara grins, curtseying.  
"Nah, but that's Clara, not the clothes," the Doctor says.  
Clara's smile falters for half a second and her breath catches in her chest for a moment; she's not sure if he's kidding. One look at him, though, and she realises he said it without thinking, and meant it too. Her grin flicks back on as she raises an eyebrow at him. He does a very quick pirouette to ensure he's facing the console, not her.  
Jack winks at her. "So, Doctor, are we there yet? Huh?" he persists like a small anxious child on a road trip, all the while smirking at Clara like this is some kind of inside joke they have going.  
"Yes, we are," the Doctor announces a little unnecessarily as they all get knocked rather spectacularly to the ground as the TARDIS lurches through the Time Vortex.  
The Timelord jumps back to his feet happily, before noticing Clara and Jack still on the floor. They glare at him for a moment before they both start laughing.  
"Smooth landing, Doctor," Clara notes as he helps her up.  
He flicks his quiff nonchalantly. "Ah, well, it wasn't one of my best."  
"Where are we, exactly?" Jack asks, sniffing the air. "I'd say around what, Christmas, July 1931? Australia?"  
Clara grins at him. "Can you really tell that by smelling the air?"  
"Course," Jack tells her cockily.  
Something strange stirs inside the Doctor's chest – it's a very odd feeling, and is best described as the Timelord wanting to shove Jack back inside the TARDIS, lock the door, and take Clara dancing, keeping her all to himself.  
"Yes," the Doctor agrees, "and I don't suppose the APL – automatic placement locator – helped even a little bit?"  
Jack shrugs, conceding defeat, and stretches out his wrist to Clara, showing her a chunky metal device. A small screen on it reads, _Brisbane, Australia – 1931 December 25__th__, 6:02pm._  
Clara rolls her eyes at him. "Captain Show-off," she mutters, though Jack looks unabashed.  
The trio glance around. About a hundred metres away is a the outskirts of a town, and a very large, brightly lit hall. Loud, jazzy music issues from the merry place, a nice atmosphere surrounding it like a cloud.  
The Doctor very quickly offers Clara his arm, thanking his fast reflexes as in the corner of his eye he just caught Jack about to do the same thing.  
"Well, then," the Captain says. "I'll give you the help you need, Doctor. But through a series of demonstrations. While we're dancing."  
"I'm not dancing. You're dancing," the Doctor tells him dismissively, adopting a superior air. "We're here because _you _want to dance, not me."  
"Fine," Jack says, grinning gleefully. "Clara, would _you _like to dance with me?"  
"Of course, Captain," Clara responds, putting on a voice that mocks the affected accents from period dramas. Jack takes her hand and quickly kisses it, sporting a cocky, cheerful grin.  
"Come to think of it, I _do_ like dancing," the Doctor says hurriedly. "I think I'll join in after all."


	20. Chapter 20

Hi everyone  
Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up, I've just been a bit busy. Anyway, I'm going away for 2 weeks as of Sunday (AUS time), so I won't be updating any of my fics for probably at least a fortnight, most likely three weeks. Sorry *hides face*. You've been so patient with me, little Centurions.

* * *

The dance hall is reasonably crowded, though nobody questions their arrival – it's a public affair, clearly, without restricted access. Nevertheless, the Doctor's hand dances to his coat pocket to brush his psychic paper every so often. For some reason, he's anticipating trouble; though he glances at Jack glancing at Clara and decides trouble is already here. Perhaps this wasn't the best of plans.  
He needn't have worried, though. Within literal _seconds _of entering the room, Jack has picked up a girl to dance with, his grin and vaguely army-esque attire winning him admiration immediately. Clara watches in an amused way, not seeming particularly bothered. The Doctor soon relaxes, as he and Clara sit over to the side, talking about everything and nothing.  
He's really quite enjoying himself: Clara looks incredibly pretty, the music is very nice, Clara looks incredibly pretty, Jack's somewhere else, Clara looks incredibly pretty… yes, overall, he's _really _quite enjoying himself.  
Then a young, strong, good-looking soldier invites Clara to dance and he just suddenly _stops. _Clara accepts, gives the Doctor a small wave, and heads over to the floor with the man, where they join Jack and his new partner in a waltz.  
The Doctor finds himself frowning. He'd sort of just assumed Jack would be the only problem. _Everyone _loved Jack. And _Jack_ loved _everyone_. It was really hard to get around. But it hadn't really occurred to the Doctor that _other _people might find Clara very beautiful too, and also be a little more up to doing something about it than he was.  
He decides he hates the soldier: the nice, charming, happy and smiling young man in his _uniform _who's treating Clara very well and doing absolutely nothing to earn the Doctor's disrespect other than the fact that the Timelord would like to be in his place. The Doctor kicks himself mentally because, really, it's _his own fault _he's not the one dancing with Clara. He had around fifteen minutes in which to invite her, and did nothing.  
The soldier is standing a little closer to Clara than is really the bare minimum necessary to dance a waltz, the Doctor observes. He should be holding her at arm's length at least, when there's only around ten centimetres between them. Admittedly, the substantial height gap means Clara is closer to his chest than his face, but this doesn't stop the Timelord wriggling around and fidgeting like a two year old.  
They'd kissed, hadn't they? He and Clara? They definitely had, the Doctor knew this. It wasn't something you forgot. They'd kissed a couple of times and each one had been absolutely perfect. But he'd done nothing about it.  
It wasn't because he didn't want to – he wasn't like Jack, happy to drift from person to person like a feather. He'd found Clara and it was rather scary how prepared he was to spend the rest of his life with her. But he just _hadn't done anything about it._  
He watches the dance finish and Clara and the soldier clap along with everyone else in appreciation of the small orchestra. The young man says something to Clara, she nods cheerfully, and he departs. A few moments later, Clara's standing beside the Doctor again.  
"What's up, Mr Grumpy?" she asks him, smirking.  
"Nothing," the Doctor replies a little haughtily, flicking his quiff.  
"Don't you '_nothing'_ me, Chin Boy, I know that face and I know it means something's up. There aren't any Cybermen or Ice Warriors here, so come on – what's bothering you?" she pushes.  
"Nothing," the Timelord persists, jumping ever so slightly as Jack swoops in.  
"He's jealous," Jack informs her matter-of-factly.  
"Am not," the Doctor counters.  
"Of what?" Clara asks blankly.  
"You dancing with Danny," Jack continues cheerfully, looking most pleased with himself.  
"Who's Danny?" the Doctor asks.  
"The nice, good-looking, happy, tall, confident young soldier. Watch each adjective pierce him like a knife, Clara," Jack gloats, laughing. "_Watch it. _Nope, Doc. Jack has done a professional diagnosis and found this here Timelord has a bad case of the 'jealousies'."  
Clara whips around, turning to look at the Doctor himself. "True?" she asks.  
He doesn't respond, so she takes this as conformation. "So why didn't _you _ask me to dance, then?" she quirks an eyebrow expectantly at him.  
A moment drags by as the Doctor desperately tries to frame his thoughts. "Didn't think you'd want to…" is as good as he can come up with.  
Clara's eyebrows dance so high both Jack and the Doctor are fairly sure they're going to disappear up into her hair. "Why?"  
"Um… Uh… Huh… I – Clara, would you like to dance?" the Doctor says finally, giving up on trying to justify his doubts and instead leaping out of the cooking pot and into the fire.  
She smirks at him. "M-a-y-b-e," Clara replies, dragging it out. Then she takes pity on him, saying, "Of course, you idiot."  
The Doctor jumps up happily, Jack sniggers, and Clara tugs the Doctor to the dance floor.  
Half an hour later, the Doctor leaves Clara with the intention of finally speaking to Jack. She watches him curiously, but lets him go, and is invited again to dance by the soldier, Danny.  
"So," Jack says to the Timelord, once they are safely hidden away in a corridor (the Doctor reflects on how many life forms would cherish the experience of being alone with the Captain in a dark space, but decides very firmly that he most certainly is not one of them).  
"Yes?" the Doctor replies eagerly, though slightly nervously, a bit unsure what he wants to hear.  
"Well, I've watched you," Jack responds carefully, his half-shadowed face revealing nothing. "You're very into her. Like off the scale. Like 'this close to paying Fertilithia a visit' kind of off the scale."  
The Doctor blushes a little at that. Fertilithia is the universe's number one wedding planet. Not that he wants to marry Clara, of course. That's silly. He doesn't need to. All he wants (and it's rather a small request, really) is to spend every day of the rest of his life with her. "I can sense a 'but' coming, Captain?"  
"Butt?" Jack repeats, interested.  
"As in a contradiction," the Doctor clarifies hurriedly.  
"Oh. Did I say 'but', though?"  
"No."  
"So what made you think one was coming?"  
"Well, you outlined everything _I _already knew, and then left out what I wanted to know," the Doctor explains.  
Jack raises his eyebrows. "Are you sure you _did _know that, though – it's very important you're sure of _yourself, _Timelord."  
The Doctor nods. "I'm always sure of myself. Often. Most of the time. Sometimes. Ok, get to the next part."  
Jack sighs, but continues, chuckling a little. "Well, she clearly likes you a hell of a lot too. Not really the heart-on-her-sleeve type, is Clara, so it's a little hard to tell _how _'a hell of a lot'. Best way I can think of is to tell her. You don't want her to give up on you and go to get herself someone who'll acknowledge her, like Martha did."  
"I _do _acknowledge her!" the Doctor protests.  
"Doctor, you act like a fourteen year old. You two have been skirting lightly around each other, coming together every so often but always running away again. And I know running is what you do best, but remember it's always good to run _with _someone, rather than _away _from them, eh? My advice, and the only advice I'll give, is to go out there and tell her exactly what you feel. Now, I've got to go, this dance is my reward for giving you a hand, and there are at least five blondes and three brunettes out there who think I'm absolutely smashing, and I wouldn't want to let them down," Jack says, and disappears back into the hall.  
The Doctor sighs, left by himself in the corridor. He leans against the wood, reflecting that Australian summer weather is really too warm to wear his jacket, so he takes it off and rolls up his sleeves. For some reason, that makes him feel more confident. Almost more grown-up. He takes a deep breath, and walks back out into the dance hall with purpose. He arrives just as the dance ends, and spots Clara with Danny again; he moves over to them, just as the next song is about to start.  
The Doctor taps Danny quickly on the shoulder. "Mind if I have this one?" he asks, indicating Clara. Danny's response doesn't really matter; the Timelord is determined that he will dance this one with his companion no matter what this Australian has to say about it.  
"Of course, my friend," the soldier replies cheerily, clapping the Doctor on the upper arm. The young man smiles graciously at Clara and thanks her for the dance, before turning away. Just as he passes the Doctor, however, Danny whispers in the Timelord's ear. "Best of luck to you, mate. She's a good girl and definitely a keeper, this one." The soldier grins and goes off to get himself a drink.  
Immediately, the Doctor's nerves melt away. He's not sure why, but encouragement from a stranger who had to form his opinion simply by watching he and Clara gives him hope.  
The song starts up, and it's really quite a loud one, with lots of brass and saxophone.  
"You and Jack sort everything out, then?" Clara asks, one eyebrow raised slightly as she watches the Doctor's face for any kind of reaction.  
The Doctor shrugs. "Sort of more or less a bit," he blurts out in one stream, causing Clara to giggle at him. The sound makes him glow ever so slightly, like someone has lit a friendly candle in his chest.  
"Where's your jacket?" Clara asks, glancing around. "You haven't lost it, have you?"  
"Nope, Clara, I have not. It is most definitely found but sitting somewhere I'm not quite sure where," he tells her. For some reason, he seems to be talking a lot of rubbish all of a sudden, he decides to cut to the chase. "I love you, Clara Oswald," he says, just as the music crescendos spectacularly.  
"You _what _colourful?" Clara asks, as the music dies down again, ever so slightly.  
Having done it once, the Doctor feels a little more comfortable, and repeats himself, exactly as the music blares up to an incredibly high volume once more.  
"Something about _olives_…" Clara suggests vaguely. "Doctor, I really can't hear you, you'll have to speak up."  
"_I love you, Clara,_" the Doctor says really very loudly this time, conveniently just _after _the song comes to an abrupt end.  
Everyone hears, and most of them turn around to look.  
But the Doctor doesn't see. He just watches Clara for her reaction. Her face is utterly unreadable, for a moment, her expression completely impossible to judge.  
Then she hugs him around the middle and replies softly, "I love you too."  
Everyone in the hall starts to clap.  
Except for Jack. Who wolf-whistles, despite the fact they're only hugging. But it's Jack, and no-one would have expected any less.  
"Ten points for the Face of Boe!" the Captain shouts. "I prevail!"  
The Doctor holds Clara close, holds her tight, like he's afraid that if he lets go, the last few seconds won't have happened.  
But they have.  
They were real. And so was what they both said, what they both meant.  
But, Clara being Clara, despite the occasion, must still have the last word as the clapping dies away and the music resumes. She leans up and whispers in his ear, "About time, Timelord."  
He just smiles happily to himself. "About time indeed," he replies.

* * *

**11 points if you got my two Oswin Oswald references.**

**A/N: I know the ending sounds a little final and how I said I was ending TYCB at chapter 20, but I'm not, don't worry. But it is a turning point in the series :) See you *eventually***


	21. Chapter 21

**TYCB - Chapter 21 (this one was en requeste from a reader - don't forget you can give me prompts in the reviews)**

**A/N: I know the not-so-subtle 1997 movie references are painful for some of you, but I couldn't resist on account of this PROBABLY being the only Titanic fic I'll ever write, so... Sorry *winces under the cascade of books and furniture hurled at me by angry readers*. **

**- Don't worry there's not too many seriously -**

****also note (sorry, I know, lots of notes - but I've been away and there are things that need saying)**

**1. Sorry I have not being responding in any way to anything. I have not had Wi-Fi. It's tragic. Sorry. Don't hate me. You're all fabulous. **

**2. These chapters will be a little shorter than normal. A little is better than none, right?**

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The TARDIS materialises in front of the Torchwood Tower, with no apparent concerns about being inconspicuous. While the Doctor tries to put out the fire that has recently erupted on the Console (it would seem Jack and Clara in the same room was finally too much for the old girl), Clara and Jack head outside to see the Captain off.

"Here's my number," Jack tells Clara, scrawling some digits down. "If you ever need a sassy gay friend. Or just a sassy friend. Or a gay friend. Or a straight friend. I'm very flexible."

She just laughs, taking the shard of paper from his hand and giving him a quick hug. "See you, Jack."

"Any time, M'am," the Captain assures her, giving her a salute. "Where are you two off to now?"

Clara shrugs. "I don't know," she replies. "It's a surprise."

Jack winks. "I bet. Well, I better leave you two lovebirds alone. The universe needs me."

"Of course, Cap."

A doff of the hat, and The Face of Boe is gone.

Smirking and simultaneously shaking her head, Clara swivels on her heel and re-enters the TARDIS.

"Jack all good?" The Doctor asks, his face covered in soot, a set of flying goggles pushed up on to his forehead and displacing his quiff.

"I get the feeling he's ALWAYS good. Where to now?" Clara asks, swaying slightly, her hands holding the bars that rim the Console Room.

"He is always good. Except when he's pregnant. Then he gets a bit grumpy. Only don't tell him I said that; it won't happen for another few thousand years by his timeline," the Doctor calculates. "And, just checking - you don't want to go home? You normally go home after we have adventures."

"Nope, I'm staying right here. With you. If that's ok," Clara finishes, walking over quietly.

"More than ok. Brilliant. Absolutely, definitely great," he lists in response.

"Ok," she laughs softly. The best sound in the whole world, in the Doctor's opinion.

She still seems a little unsure, though he doesn't know why; perhaps she thought he wasn't serious, before, when he told her he loved her. Maybe she regretted saying it back.

On instinct, he wraps her in a hug. "I meant it, earlier, you know," he assures Clara, her head tucked against his chest, nestling perfectly beneath his chin. He feels her arms slip around him tentatively.

"Really?"

"Really really, Clara Oswald, and don't you forget it. I love you all the way to Gallifrey and back."

"Ta da!" The Doctor shouts, pulling open the TARDIS doors to reveal - a spectacularly boring storage bunker. "Huh. Wrong spot. Oh well." He checks his watch. "Right ship, though. Good for me. Well, we better go and change into the right sort of clothes unless we want to be unceremoniously shoved into steerage."

"Where are we?" Clara asks, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his bent elbow.

"Surprise. You'll have to wait and see. I meant to land on deck, but it would seem we're in the hull. Still..."

Five minutes later, the Doctor is back waiting in the Console Room, dressed in the only other suit he'll willingly wear: black, with tails and a white shirt and stark tie.

"Cl-aaaa-ra!" he calls, sounding almost like an impatient kid. "Are you nearly ready?"

The TARDIS puts Clara on the speaker so she can talk to him from the wardrobe room. "Nearly. The TARDIS picked out a dress that's a touch hard to put on."

"I can come help, if you want."

"Down boy."

"No, I just meant... I'll wait out here, take your time," he mutters, and hears her laugh.

A further fifteen minutes pass before Clara returns to the Console Room. Some one third of that time ago, the Doctor had got fidgety and migrated down the stairs to fiddle with bits of the TARDIS, breaking more than he fixes.

"'Cha doing?" Clara asks, swinging around the narrow metal bannister.

The Doctor looks up. "Wow. You look really beautiful. You do."

She smiles, a little self consciously. Her hair is very loosely curled in an autumn-coloured cascade; she wears a narrow-waisted pure white dress that graces the floor, and is made of a slightly laced, more see-through material across her shoulders. The TARDIS has also provided her with a deep crimson shawl; it is most uncharacteristically nice of his machine to give his friend her favourite colour, but perhaps she was feeling charitable today.

"Not so bad yourself, Doctor. I didn't know you had anything other than your tweed and bright orange space suit," Clara smirks.

"Oi, they're cool. Come on - let's go outside, eh?" The Doctor offers.

"Okey dokey. Where are we, then? Spill, mister - or do you do not know? You have a talent for getting lost," Clara teases playfully.

He raises his eyebrows and, flicking his fringe, adopts an authoritative, aloof air. "I happen to know exactly where we are, thank you very much. It is the 10th of April, 1912, and we are Doctor and Mrs Smith, First Class passengers to New York in the RMS Titanic!"

Clara raises her eyebrows slightly. "Uh - you DO know Titanic sank, right? Killed hundreds of people in the process?" she reminds him.

He nods so fast Clara's fairly sure his head will fall off. "Of course - but that's LATER, Clara. Not for days. We'll stay here tonight and tonight only, and then get out. We'll get to appreciate the ship without the horror of the sinking," he tells her.

Clara twists her mouth slightly. "I'd feel horrible, though," she replies. "All those people who'll be dead in just a few days, walking past them..."

"How is it different from when we went to 109 BC? The people are LONG dead by your time, just like these ones are..." The Doctor offers. To be honest, sometimes he forgets how Clara sees the world so differently to him. It's part of the reason why he loves her. She looks at the universe in a way that's so... New and hopeful and innocent, unlike him who's seen far too much and lived far too long.

"But these ones died too soon," Clara murmurs sadly.

The Doctor gets up and goes and half-kneels in front of her, his eyes searching her face. "This was a beautiful ship, Clara. It was a statement from humanity that they had risen above nature, and were stronger. Then they were proven wrong in the most horrible, horrible way - but it's still a beautiful a ship, and people deserve to see her in her glory, not her horror. That's what time travel is for, isn't it? Seeing things while they're still young and strong and perfect and brave. It's about enjoying the good and respecting the bad and knowing when things have to happen, bad things, for progress and for the days to get better, hey? I'm a watcher and a fixer, and I've gotten very good at both. But above all, I am very, very good at remembering.

"We can go somewhere else if you want. Or we can stay."

Clara meets his gaze and doesn't blink for several moments. He can almost SEE her thinking. "Ok," she mutters, a small smile whispering across her face, "We'll stay." Clara pauses, then leans forward and gives him a hug. Because he's on a lower step than she is, her head can actually rest on his shoulder.

"Thanks for bringing me."

"Doctor and Mrs Smith," the Doctor says cheerfully, flashing his psychic paper at the helpful steward. As the ship was only just being boarded, the two were not out of place; while getting up the one of the higher decks without being seen had been a bit of a challenge, they were now permitted to blend in with the rest of the harried crowd.

"Of course, sir, m'am. Right this way if you please, I'll escort you to your suite."

Their guise of being a married couple brought back several less favourable memories of an outing to Victorian Yorkshire for Clara, though she still did not have even the slightest problem with it. The lie was necessary, after all - a man and a woman sharing living quarters on a prestigious ship without any other company were bound to raise questions and speculation unless they were wedded or blood kin. Neither the Doctor nor Clara was up for pretending to be brother and sister, so husband and wife was the logical choice.

Their 'suite' was like a luxurious, single storey mansion. Clara had never seen so much unnecessary finery compressed into one place. Everything within the First Class accommodation was almost dauntingly posh.

When the steward leaves them alone (they told him their 'luggage was coming with a 'valet'), Clara says, "It makes me feel small."

"You are small."

"Hey!" Clara casts him a glare of a class to rival that of the suite.

The Doctor grins at her, before kicking off his shoes and running over to the large, elegant, four-poster bed that dominates the next room; he leaps up onto the covers and jumps up and down like small children love to do.

Clara laughs at the simple joy on his face; she's seen him look old and sad and scarred, and it fills her with hope that one so damaged could still experience such happiness.

"What?" the Doctor asks her, a puzzled expression consuming his face before he lands on the mattress for the twentieth time, but doubles up and topples over in pain on impact.

Immediately, Clara rushes over.

"What happened?" she asks urgently, shaking his shoulder as he lies there groaning, eyes clamped shut in pain.

"Clara," he mutters. "You're familiar with the concept of regeneration, aren't you? You read the book I gave you about Timelord anatomy?"

"The one with all the pages ripped out under the section 'reproductive organs'? Yeah, I remember. But you can't be regenerating, you're not dying! You can't be, you were fine a few minutes ago..." Clara trails off desperately, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

"I am now; I appear to have trod on a small bomb..."

Frowning, Clara runs her hand over the sheets where he was jumping - she didn't recall hearing a bomb go off.

She feels a small, hard something in the covers. Frowning, she tugs it into the open air.

"Ha ha!" she says triumphantly. "It's a red Lego block, you big baby!"

The Doctor sits up, opens his eyes and grimaces. "I thought they were toys, not weapons of mass destruction! Someone explain how something so innocent can redefine pain itself when trodden on!"

But Clara ignores him. "Doctor, hush - that's not important. The real question is, what's a Lego block doing in 1912?"

The Doctor sniffs nonchalantly. "It was in my pocket, I suppose. Lots of stuff in there - them being bigger on the inside and all. Don't ask," he advises finally.

"Are you going to keep jumping, now, you wuss? Artie coped better with a broken arm than you did just then," Clara smirks, shaking her head.

The Doctor tilts his head away, looking long suffering. "Timelords feel pain more acutely than humans."

"Liar. I DID read that book on anatomy, you know; even the part on sensory receptors."

"Fine. And no, I don't trust this bed anymore. We are no longer friends. I intend never to come into contact with it again." And, with that, the Oncoming Storm leaps up and off the mattress.

Clara grins. "That's probably a good thing. You'll ruin the bed springs." Then she goes quiet when she realises it doesn't matter, in a few days everything will be under the sea.

"Tell you what," the Doctor offers, "do you want to hope back into the TARDIS and skip forward until this afternoon? All that's going to happen for the next few hours is a whole lot of posh people ordering the poor old stewards to carry their luggage around."

"Ok, sounds good. But don't skip ALL day, ok - I want to see the sunset on this boat," Clara decides.

"Yes m'am!"

Half an hour later, the two are up on the deck to watch the sunset as requested by 'Mrs Smith'. The Doctor has recovered from his previous Lego-induced injury.

They head to the bow of the ship and stand there, side by side, their hands intertwined, as they watch the sun sink below the waves like a flaming island, a burning Atlantis doomed to fall under the sea.

The wind rushing through her hair, Clara steps right to the front, feeling the cool of the air and the heat if Earth's guardian star intermingled to one. But her dress is long and she's not used to it; as her hand stretches out to the railing she trips over the hem.

The Doctor, paranoid she'll fall overboard, lunges forward and grabs her around the waist, steadying her.

When she's fine again, neither of them make a move to change their position. There's no need or inclination on either behalf.

So they just stand there, like that, for a while, he with his hands resting on her waist, she leaning back into his chest as they watch the day die.

It's funny that the end to something so precious which will never be experienced again can be so unwaveringly beautiful.

Neither half of the pair feels the need to do or say anything. Words have no place right here, right now.

And to them, the moment is perfect.

****to be continued****


	22. Chapter 22

**WARNING: short chapter. Apologies. Sorry. Whoops. Still, my ancient motto, right? A little is better than none. I know I update a LOT more than most whouffle fanfic writers, so you can probably all deal with the odd ripoff once in a while. Again, sorry :/**  
********* also, if you think it gets a bit cheesy (trust me, guys, it's not too bad – when have I let you down in this regard?), just remember Matt and Jenna could pull it off like BAM WOW THAT WAS BEAUTIFUL because whouffle.**

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_OH AND BY THE WAY GUYS WE'VE FINALLY GOT A PROPER COVER! THAT'S RIGHT, I FINALLY USED MY NON-EXISTENT PHOTOSHOP SKILLS TO ATTEMPT THE CREATING OF A COVER._

* * *

The music plays for dinner. They encounter a young stewardess who escorts them to their table; Clara is mildly apprehensive at the idea of being surrounded by such judgemental, stuck up, righteous, wealthy people, but is otherwise very excited at the prospect of eating with the rich and influential of Europe and America.

Angie would be envious, she knew. The teen liked the idea of high society, a place without little brothers to bother oneself.

A waiter seated them at a long, elegant, white-clothed table. Within minutes, the couple were joined by a series of other families.

A large, rotund sort of woman with a bright voice that rang with a thick American accent turned to the Doctor, who sat beside her, and stretched out a hand. "We've missed you these last few sit downs," she tells him cheerfully. "I'm Molly Brown."

Clara assumes when she says 'missed you these last few meals' she means lunch and afternoon tea and whatever other eating rich people of the early 20th century do. She's heard of Molly Brown, too; the unsinkable woman. History remembers her, and will for a very, very long time.

"Yes, we've been trying the different restaurants," the Doctor invents to cover for their day's absence. "But pleased to meet you, Molly Brown, I'm Doctor John Smith, and this is my wife, Clara."

It's almost funny to hear him say that, Clara thinks, but perhaps not as funny as it should be. She realises it shouldn't be strange at all, and quickly composes herself to look natural.

"It's a real pleasure to meet you, Mrs Brown," Clara offers, and really means it.

Dinner progresses nicely, but as the new members of the dining group (presumably the others had become acquainted at lunch that day) 'Dr and Mrs Smith' were confronted with an avalanche of questions, everyone prying to find out HOW rich they were, HOW influential.

(Did they have any children?

_No, they were newly married. _

That's nice. An arranged union?

_No, not at all. _

Ah - thought not. Their connection is easy to see. Why were they heading to America?

_They were travelling on a combination of business and pleasure, and a ship as majestic as Titanic was an opportunity too interesting to miss. _

Of course. Where abouts were their families?

_Clara is connected to a very wealthy family in Blackpool, while the Doctor is from one of the richest families in America, though he was raised mostly in England as his father supervised the European branch of his own father's firm_.)

Clara lets her 'husband' do most of the talking, as she's a little afraid she might slip over some first class cultural tradition and get them thrown out. But the longer they sit there, the more comfortable she becomes, and contributes more and more to the conversation. Something about Molly Brown radiates _ease_.

Neither of them eat a whole lot, as the food is rich and they're not really sure how use all the cutlery.

The Doctor notices a lot of things that evening. He notices Mrs Brown is very different from the last time he saw her (she was an old woman, then, her future, his past - he'd been to say goodbye and see her off and thank her for being brave; bravery she'll show in just a few days). He notices how young so many of the waiters look. Too young to die. He notices that he can't seem to dislike Ismay as much as he thought he would - perhaps it is because he knows what it is like to leave so many to die, and for much of it to be your fault; for you to be one of the only survivors.

But most of all he notices Clara, how beautiful she looks and how well she manages to blend in with the customs of the time without any visible effort or trouble - he's proud of her. How the sunlight graces her cheeks and the little strands of hair that chase across her face and she has to brush behind her ear. He thinks they should pretend to be married more often. This is mostly, he tells himself, because it stops handsome, young men trying to attract Clara's attention (this slows them down - that's the reason it annoys him). But also because it's just... Nice.

Fun. Pleasant. Makes him feel happy and whole.

When the evening's entertainment is over, Clara and the Doctor return to their suite. "It's getting colder," the former observes, tugging her shawl around her shoulders even tighter.

"Well, we _are_ in the Atlantic, surrounded by icebergs. One would expect such weather," 'Dr Smith' replies heartily.

Clara narrows her eyes at him. "No need to be smart," she scolds. "I wasn't saying it was unprecedented, I was just saying that it _was_." She skips over to her bed (apparently she'll have to have the one he jumped on, as now that the Doctor and said furniture are mortal enemies, he won't go near it) and sits upon it, before suddenly frowning.

Forgetting about his grudge on his newly nominated 'arch-nemesis', the Doctor plonks down beside her, an arm quickly looping round her shoulders.

"What's up?" he asks. "Is the idea of the sinking getting to you again?"

Clara shakes her head. "No. Well, that too. No, I was just thinking about before. I don't mean to dwell on it, but I can't _help_ it..."

The Doctor pulls her close and replies, "Tell me. I want to help. What's wrong?"

Clara shrugs. "Nothing's wrong. Not as such. It's just... when we went dancing in 1930 with Jack, you said you loved me, and I said I loved you too. I really did mean it. But... You're a Timelord. Time lords live for hundreds and hundreds of years, and I'll probably only be around another fifty or so. And by the time those years are up, I'll be very old and grey and you'll still be young. I don't care about that, of course, I'm not so superficial - you're a thousand years older than I am already, and it never bothers me. I like it - it means you'll never run out of stories, and you'll always be different, and I'll never know you inside out. You'll never grow dull. But I've had people say things like 'I love you' to me before, and they never really meant it, not properly. So I suppose, what I'm getting to in a vet indirect sort of way, is... What do you mean, exactly, when you say you love me? For humans, it seems to mean a whole lot of domestic-y things and promises that will be kept and a 'together as long as you live'. But you're a Timelord. You're going to live a very long time and potentially get bored with me. You've got the whole universe to see. Sorry, I'm not trying to sound insecure, because I'm not. I'm not some silly weak little human that will follow you around like a puppy, and I know that you know that too," she finishes, feeling as if she's actually no closer to describing her problem as when she started.

The Doctor looks at her for a very long time before he speaks. "Do you know, Clara Oswald,that I've never _really_ thought about how different species consider love. For some animals, it means raising children and sharing food. For the Alpaki race of Galacia, it means eating each other. For the Michimichi fish, immortal creatures from the Listica sea, it means they agree to swim forever holding hands and never let go. It's hard to define for Timelords, just as sometimes it's hard to define for people. I suppose it depends on the two involved... But, for me - for you, Clara... Like you said, I've got the whole universe to see, and I don't grow old. And love is... Me being willing to give all that up just to get an extra moment. When you become worth more to me than all the things I've seen, all the things I've done. I thought, for a very long time, I was heading to far off galaxies, burning planets and lonely stars. But I wasn't, I don't suppose. I was running to you, in a way. Across the whole universe, for hundreds and hundreds of years. I should have run faster. I've been alone for a very long time, partly because I really was and mostly because I made myself so. I had running to keep me company - the one constant friend: onwards, for further than I can see. But I don't _need_ to run anymore, I don't need to fly. I guess, for me... Love is having someone you run with, and would never want to run without. So, Clara Oswald, when I say 'I love you', I mean that I would rather spend one day on Earth, just sitting beside you, than pass the hours anywhere else with anyone else."

After that they are quiet for a very long time - sitting beside each other on Earth.

Then, Clara turns to the Doctor and kisses him, once and once only. It's not short, but it doesn't need to be any longer, either.

"Thank you," she says simply.

He nods, and she quietly rests her head against his shoulder, and neither of them moves until Clara eventually falls asleep.

Once he's sure she's dreaming, he gently lifts her up and places her in her bed comfortably, remembering her comment about the cool weather and making sure the blanket swathes her. After a moment, he lies down beside her and holds her hand, and gazes upward. He doesn't see the ceiling, though. He sees the sky and all the stars. Every star he's already seen and all those yet to come; but these ones will be better. Because he'll be seeing them with her.

Hours later, when they're both asleep, the main door to their suite bursts open.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you are requested by the Captain to head up to the deck. Life jackets are mandatory. Please hurry. We're sure there's no need to worry."

The Doctor's immediately sitting up (he didn't even really need the rest at all, but it was relaxing), as Clara just opens her eyes, still confused with sleep.

"What?" she murmurs. "But it's the 10th of April... It can't... Doctor - what?" Coherency isn't quite within her grasp yet, something that is greatly frustrating her.

The Doctor checks his watch. Which is a little more useful and a tad more timey wimey than most similar appliances.

"Ah," he mutters in response. "Ah. No, it would appear when we jumped from the morning till the afternoon... We may have also jumped a few days as well..."

Clara glares. "We're stuffed, aren't we?"

The Doctor tugs his collar uncomfortably. "Not exactly." It's funny how it doesn't feel strange at all to be next to her in such a situation. This kind of position (that is, next to someone in a bed) would have once made him squirm with embarrassment, but not anymore. Not with Clara. It just feels _right_.

"Well, if we're not stuffed 'exactly' what are we then? I know a bit about this boat, you realise - enough to work out that by the time they start disturbing the First Class passengers, the bottom parts of the ship are well and truly water-filled," Clara reminds him. "And that means the HADs will have activated and the TARDIS will currently be holidaying in New York or Rome or some other such place," she finishes, an eyebrow raised in a very unimpressed way.

At least she isn't panicking, the Doctor thinks. Not that Clara ever panics. She's too clever for that.

"I suppose. We could check..." he begins, but Clara's already shaking her head.

"No. That water's too cold, what if we get trapped down there are your ship is already gone? I don't know about you, but I'm not fussed on freezing to death, thank you very much," Clara tells him, her voice woven of certainty.

He nods. "Ok. So. Now what? This is a little unexpected. Hmm. I generally try not to stick around for Volcano Day - some very good advice given to me by Captain Jack two faces ago for me and back when he was still a con agent. Anyway... I suppose is better get you up to a lifeboat, then..." he decides.

Clara just rolls her eyes at him. "Also a no. How exactly do you think you'd convince me to hop on a boat while you stay on a sinking ship, hey? No way. Never. You and me, right? Running. Even to Volcano Day."

**to be continued**


	23. Chapter 23

**Hey  
New chapter for you all. I may not be able to release another one for a while, so if you're bored, please check out:**

** - An Alternate Whouffleverse [my ClaraxEleven AU]**  
** - And All the Stars [a cute little whouffle oneshot - new - please read]  
- :) thanks**

* * *

The Doctor matches her glare. "You DO understand the water is _freezing_, don't you, Clara? I'm not talking 'uncomfortably cold'. I mean FREEZING. ICE. You're small, if you end up in the sea..." he trails off, because some things are best not even thought about, let alone said.

But Clara does not back down, nor does she ever intend to. "And I'M telling YOU that we'll work out a way around this, together. You thought you were dying because of a _lego block_. If I hop on a lifeboat, how can I be sure you'll make it off ok, Mr Capable? Don't be stupid. Look, I know we can't save everyone, but there's got to be something we can do... Set an example..." her eyebrows crease in thought for a moment before suddenly, an idea seems to occur. "It's women and children only, right? On the boats? Well, what if we build our own?"

"Clara, building a boat takes time and resources and..." He doesn't even know why he's refuting her. The Doctor supposes it's because he'd rather ensure Clara's going to survive by getting her on a boat than taking a chance for both of them.

"What about a raft, then? On the way up from the hull, I saw a couple of emergency axes in glass cases - if we get one of those, we've got a whole ton of wooden furniture in here that's going straight to the bottom anyway... We could make a raft just fine. With any luck, other people will try to copy... Once we've done it, we can get up on deck and try to convince them to fill the boats - perhaps we can save a few lives today."

(This had been the Doctor's plan:

1. Somehow, using the wits and wisdom of 1200 years, convince Clara to get on a boat.

2. Get life jackets to as many people as humanely possible.

3. Try to convince the crew members to fill the boats, though history dictates he fails at this step.

4. End up the water and hope his Timelord anatomy and slightly higher resilience will see him through till the lifeboats return.

Perhaps not the best of plans, but it would keep Clara safe. He knows she's capable, but stubbornness and ingenuity and cleverness won't help you survive hypothermia.)

But Clara's face has set in the hard lines that he has come to know mean 'I'm right, you know it, don't boss me around, I'm not a kid, my plan is better'. The fact the expression is totally and utterly justified irks the Doctor more than a little. He just wants her safe, even if, perhaps, that is the wrong thing by her.

"Fine," he agrees. "Let's go get an axe, then. There's bound to be some hole in this plan, but I haven't spotted it yet."

Clara nods. "Probably. Oh, well. Hang on, though... If we're going to go running around a sinking ship, I don't want to be in a floor length dress... Shame, it was nice. Though I suppose sacrifices must be made."

She wraps her hand through the fabric of her dress just below the knee and tugs, hard. After several moments, the material tears, giving the dress a new, rather shorter, hemline. The Doctor tries not to think about it too much.

Instead of watching her trying to make her dress fit, he heads over to the wardrobe and pulls out two life jackets. He returns to Clara, and slides it over her head, despite her slight protests, and fastens it tightly.

After several failed attempts to don his own, Clara takes pity on him and points out where the head is _actually_ supposed to go, and then ties the strings for him.

They both take a moment to look at each other and ALMOST grin, before they remember the gravity of the situation and how both of them could be dead in two hours. So the Doctor just stretches out a hand and Clara takes it, and off they go.

The first thing Clara realises is that 2000 worried and anxious people is really rather a lot. Especially if they're in your way, between you and something that could very probably help you ensure you get to spend the rest of your life (or, at least, hopefully, a very, very long time) with the person currently holding your hand. The passengers drift around aimlessly, half of them absolutely terrified and other half blankly refusing to concede anything is even mildly wrong. Crew members try hopelessly to convince the First Class to put in their life jackets. The hoards of sleepy, cross people swarm around them like a living thing. Normally, Clara doesn't mind being short. Now is _not_ one of those times. She can't see where she is going through the press and crush of the swirling bodies around her, and simply has to have faith that the Doctor is leading her in the right direction. Clara can almost smell the emotions that weave through the air: fear, anxiety, panic, worry, annoyance, anticipation, doubt. This is a very different boat from a few hours ago. Then, it was a ship of luxury, taking many towards a new life. Now, it is a vessel of the damned.

A man sidles between Clara and the Doctor, breaking their grip. Within seconds, the crowd has swallowed him, and there is nothing around her but bright lights, raised voices, and a collection of annoyingly tall people blocking her view.

Worry itches at her. She can practically _feel_ the time they have slipping away. Clara turns around and around, trying to fight her way through the mass of passengers and catch sight of the Doctor. But all the men wear black, and many wear life jackets.

She's not panicking, of course. Clara Oswald never panics. But she is a tiny but worried, now. She knows about crowds, and what will happen to the beast that is hoards, once they start to realise that the ship really is going down. THAT will be scary. There will be running and crying and screaming and fighting. And it will start very soon.

In retrospect, Clara thinks, as she climbs her way towards higher and clearer ground, they should have agreed on a rendezvous point in case if a situation such as this. Retrospect is a wonderful thing, but about as useful at changing the past as hindsight.

That's when the music starts. Soft and wistful, a song humming of sunny fields and happier days. Played by an orchestra that will go down with this ship. A tune to calm the doomed passengers, to sing them to their sleep. It works, too. It makes Clara relax, just a little. Just enough.

She remembers her mobile phone, which she stuffed in her boot (knowing her dress was floor length, she hadn't bothered to change her shoes - boots were ever so useful for running, an exercise that occurred rather a lot when you traveled with the Doctor), a habit of hers as a communications device can be ever so useful.

She ducks around a corner, away from the majority of the crowd, which has gathered at the base of the stairs. Clara pulls out her mobile and quickly punches in a series of digits. As she presses the cool plastic to her cheek, the dial tone starts.

"Calling 'Angie Maitland'..." the easy female voice proclaims.

The second rings resounds, causing Clara to pause and actually think about what she is doing. Why call Angie? What could she say? 'Hello, Angie, I'm stuck on Titanic, can you please send a helicopter through time to give me a hand?'? No. There was nothing either Maitland child could do. So why was she calling the eldest one?

Perhaps, she thinks, because when everything ends, we turn to those we know to light the way home. Or at least remind us of it while we fade.

But she wasn't dead yet. And, with luck, won't be any time soon.

She'll save the call for later. If the time comes when she needs a familiar voice to listen to say, "Hello."

She ends the call before Angie can answer.

Someone taps her on the shoulder. Clara swivels immediately to come face to face with the Doctor.

"Miss me?" he asks, almost cheerfully, giving her a wave.

It reminds her of another time, another place, and another sinking ship.

"You know," she tells him, "We never _did_ get to Vegas. You promised. We should go when all this is over."

He salutes her, though admittedly his salutes don't have a patch on those of Captain Jack. "Right you are. Vegas it is, once - we - are - safe." The Doctor punctuates each of the last four words with a tap on her nose.

"If you can get us there," she laughs. "Now let's go find that axe."

There's already a foot of water across the floor by the time they reach the corridor Clara recalls seeing the axe in.

And the water is _cold_. Really, really freezing. Not the kind of cold that skirts over your skin but the sort that burns so deep it feels as if it is coming from inside you rather than out.

Clara hisses as the Atlantic Ocean crawls around her ankles and her shins.

"You alright?" the Doctor asks.

"No, not really, but lets keep going anyway. I'd rather we were severely uncomfortable for a few hours than dead forever," she tells him.

The Timelord shrugs. "Technically, only you would be dead forever. I'd regenerate. Though depending on the circumstances, I could die forever. And I guess this version of me would be gone for always, anyway..."

"Doctor?"

"Mmm?"

"Not helping."

"Ah."

It takes twenty minutes, but they manage to located the axe, and Sonic the case open. By this time, Clara is shivering uncontrollably and the water is dancing above her knees; the grand young ship is sinking fast.

The Doctor desperately wants to get her out of here, but they can only go so fast and so far. He's got the axe in one palm and Clara's hand in the other. He tugs her along as she slows down (hardly perceptibly), knowing it's harsh, but having to do it all the same.

The Doctor doesn't know if he'll ever be able to fathom the amount of protectiveness he feels over this human being. He knows she isn't made of glass, but it seems to him that she could break at any moment and leave him stranded. He wonders how far one has to have fallen in love before all you can think about is that the other person is happy and safe. And that if "falling in love" was taken literally, you'd want to make sure they never hit the ground hard, though you'd been there for a very long time.

They reach the stairs and wade out of the water. Clara leans against the rail, closing her eyes for a moment.

A minute passes. The Doctor can practically hear the ship screaming with terror as she begins to plummet below.

He's reminded of another time. Another British ship. Another below. Except now there is no beast for him to fight, for him to beat.

The Oncoming Storm _cannot_ win this. He can only survive.

Or, at least, he can make sure Clara Oswald will.

A loud, groaning _creak _echoes around them.  
"How long have we got?" Clara whispers. She notices that when he replies, he doesn't try to laugh or grin or pass it off like he normally does. He really means this.  
"Not long."

* * *

**There you are. I hope you enjoyed it. As I've said before, reviews really are my only reward for the hours and hours I put into this, so it's very much appreciated if you do take the two minutes to write a quick one :) [there are like 200 of you, someone must be in a generous mood]**

x.


	24. Chapter 24

**Hey guys,**  
**I'm so sorry but this is really short. Sorry. Sorry. I'm still really sick but thought I'd better write something or you'd all walk out on me, so apologies for the quality too. Sorry. Sorry.**

* * *

Even the best laid plans of humans and Timelords can go very far astray.

They'd built the raft, and they'd even done ok - it was far from brilliant, but it would float enough.

If only the TARDIS hadn't fled to go on holiday somewhere, if the Doctor hasn't tried to fix the HADs. But, of course, one can never predict what is to come, though perhaps it is possible to do a little better than they had.

It had been as close to fine as they could've hoped, up until they'd gone on deck.

Clara could never have imagined how much the screaming could rent the air of such a silent night.

They'd been desperately trying to hang on, waiting for the boat to descend to a level where they could launch the raft into the water.

That's when, according to history, things went even more wrong than they already were.

As one of the massive metal steam chimneys began to creak and fall, the taunt wires holding it in place had snapped. One had speeded through the air, and slapped the side of the Doctor's face, breaking the skin and drawing blood.

"Hmm," the Doctor had muttered before falling to the ground, completely unconscious. She'd tried to help him, of course, as the bruising turned his face half-blue and black. But there was only so much she'd been able to do as Titanic resigned herself to her fate beneath them, and tipped them into the freezing sea.

The Doctor would have sunk on entering the Atlantic if it weren't for his life jacket. Scrabbling, Clara had managed to keep hold of the back of his coat and one arm on the raft. It had taken her a few minutes, but she'd managed to drag the ice-cold Timelord onto the wooden planks.

Unfortunately, the side effect of shifting a grown man onto a small raft was that he sprawled across the entire raft, leaving Clara with no chance of hopping on too. When they'd built the flotation device, they'd counted on the two of them being awake and able to balance. Not this.

Now, Clara is floating in the freezing cold water beside the raft, clinging to it as best as she can. By now, she feels as if she is made of cold, as if the sensation of freezing is inside her as well as out.

The passengers in the water are still screaming, though its getting quieter by now.

Clara feels something vibrate against her foot. THE PHONE, she realises suddenly. Her mobile, which the Doctor had made waterproof with his Sonic a few weeks ago.

With the last threads of her energy, Clara reaches down to her shoe through the water, and it seems to take the strength of a thousand men for her to lift it out of the sea, and let it drop into the damp planks near the Doctor's forearm.

After several deep breaths, Clara looks at the caller ID, trying to focus on something other than the shivering.

ANGIE MAITLAND CALLING...

A few seconds pass before Clara decides to hit answer. It might be scary for the teen, she thinks, but on the other hand, Clara desperately wants to hear a human voice she recognises.

As soon as she carefully taps the green icon, Angie's voice issues through the air. "Hello? Clara? Why'd you call me before, what's up? Clara? Is that screaming? Why is there screaming? Are you and the Doctor ok? Clara! Clara!"

The young woman in the freezing water desperately wants to answer, of course, to tell the other that all will be ok for her. That even if Clara Oswald is long ago and long gone, everything will be alright.

She wants to remind Angie that she loves the Maitlands, to say goodbye. But her voice doesn't seem to work. Clara can hear Angie getting increasing worried, so she taps 'End Call'. There is nothing she can do now.

A few more moments pass, and Clara finds she cannot find anything to take her kind off the sharpness of the pain. Her lungs feel as if they have been torn to shreds, and her whole self seems to not belong to her anymore, but rather is detached and far away.

She can't move anymore. So she just gazes at the still face of the unconscious Timelord, and counts his breaths. Making sure he's still alive.

The wooden planks buzz and vibrate again beneath her fingers, but she's too numb to feel it.

ANGIE MAITLAND CALLING...

Clara can't move to answer it, and she wouldn't even if she could. She doesn't want Angie to hear her die.

The air is getting very quiet, now, and the water getting still. Nobody is thrashing about anymore, and no one still had strength to scream. Perhaps everyone else is already dead, or perhaps they have no energy for anything now but dying.

Her eyes close, seemingly off their own accord, and she lets them. The bright light of the phone screen penetrates beneath her eyelids for a moment, before it too goes out. Maybe the phone call has cut itself off, or maybe she's just too far gone to see it.

A single thought dances across her consciousness. She isn't sure where it comes from, but it crosses her mind nonetheless.

All she knows now is this:

Clara Oswald is happy, this night, and ready to die for her Doctor again.

One last time.


	25. Chapter 25

Ok guys

The actual new chapter will be up later tonight, but this is just a notification.

My friends desperately want to find my fanfiction, but I don't want them to. Anyway, they were begging for clues to help them find it and I think I dropped a few too many about the name.

As a result, I will be renaming my fic to MANAGING THE MAITLANDS for a short period of time. Don't freak out. It'll be the same story. I'll change it back soon.

Thanks,  
Sorry,

x.


	26. Chapter 26

Sorry it was later in coming than I anticipated, but no need to bug me about it thanks :). I had finals and commitments I had to do first and so you miss out until today. I can't always post when I think I can.

Anyway, here you are at last.  
It might be a little cheesy, but sorry - it was late at night. And its short. Sorry about that too.

* * *

It's quiet.

The moon ushers away some of the darkness, but it creeps back in from the edges, threatening to drown the already dying people.

The damp wood of the raft is harsh against the Doctor's face.

His eyes blink open.

A thousand almost-corpses is the first thing he sees. That Clara is among them is the second.

Anger, panic and fear rear up inside him like a fiery three-headed dragon.

He knows in his hearts she's already dead. No one as small as her could survive this when there are grown men already frozen through.

But part of him, the part that dreams up stories and tells the kind of lie like "it will be ok", says that there is a small chance that Clara Oswald is still alive. There are others still breathing, so why not she? She's his Impossible Girl, after all - surely she can manage this one last impossible thing for him? To stay alive because he needs her to?

With great strength, yet somehow incredibly gently, he pulls her out of the water and only the raft with him, and holds her close, trying to warm her up.

She is as cold as the sea, and looks smaller and younger with her closed eyes and skin pale under the leeching moonlight. Clara seems little more than a fading ghost to him. Perhaps already faded.

The Doctor suddenly needs to see the colour of her eyes again. The exact way the russet brown orbs light up with wonder at the sight of something incredible. How curiosity burns within them, but also a slight tint of childish fear, too. The newness of a new world.

Maybe, the ancient Timelord thinks, he was ready when Gallifrey burned. He hated it, but he survived it. Maybe he was ready when the Ponds or River died, in a strange sort of way. Not that he had ever wanted them to leave, no - but he'd seen a lot with them, and perhaps it was their time.

But not Clara. He's seen a lot with her, too, but the whole universe would not be enough the spend with her. If she died, he could not go back to his cloud. He'd promised her that long ago. Besides, what would be the point? There would be no Clara to save him from anything anymore, not even himself.

He tugs her closer to him, willing her to be alright. Her head rests between his shoulder and his neck, but he can feel no breath.

Right now, there is nothing he can do.

So he sings to her, in Gallifreyan, a sort of lullaby. It is the song of an Impossible Girl and a Madman, flying around the universe for ever and ever.

_For ever and ever_ - he hopes that is true.

He hums to her about the adventures they've had, but also the normal days, the movies and the tea and the board games.

He remembers some of the last words anything spoke to the Tenth Doctor before he regenerated into who he was now - the luckiest incarnation. The one who got to spend the most time with Clara.

"We will sing to you. We will sing you to your sleep."

And that was the least he could do for Clara Oswald.

It seems like an eternity before the lifeboats inch into view. The Doctor has grown cold and wet too, from Clara's clothes. The white dress makes her look like a particularly beautiful ghost. He hangs onto her tight. Like if he holds on enough, she'll never go.

But she has not moved since he pulled her out of the Atlantic. He's not sad, though - he doesn't cry. She's still alive. He knows it. She has to be. Clara would not leave him like this.

"IS ANYONE ALIVE OUT THERE?" comes the call.

"HERE! OVER HERE!" The Doctor shouts, his voice severing the otherwise silent night.

Minutes pass. The sleek boat drifts slowly towards them. A million times too slowly. Don't they know Clara needs saving?

Finally, after several empires rise and fall, the lifeboat reaches them, and some crewmen pull them on board.

They try to give the Doctor a blanket, but he pushes them back.

"Clara!" he gasps, shoving the misty quilt back at the sailor. "The girl! Give it to her!"

The crewmen, two of them hardly more than boys, glance at each other.

"She's dead, sir. I'm sorry, but there's no point in trying to keep her warm now," the blond one tells him in an American accent, his green eyes open and apologetic. He can be no older than seventeen.

"She. Is. Not. Dead," the ancient Timelord almost yells. "See them? All the bodies floating in the water, their faces blue and their eyes white? How they're looking up but cannot see the stars? THAT is dead. Clara is just sleeping. We have to keep her temperature up or we WILL lose her."

The brown haired sailor checks Clara's pulse, and gently pulls back her eyelid with his thumb. Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head to his young comrade.

"Sir, I'm afraid she's gone. Really gone. There's nothing any of us can do."

"Wrap her up or I jump back in the water and add to the White Star Line death rate," the Doctor offers bluntly.

The two exchange a glance.

The blond boy mouths: _humour him?_

Another nod from his dark friend. "Right you are, sir."

The Doctor grins slightly. He'll save her. He'll save Clara. Of course he will. He never fails.

Well, hardly ever.

And he just knows, that despite all the brave men he's let die, the empires he's let fall and the planets he's let burn, the universe will keep Clara alive for him.

Because the universe couldn't be without the Madman, and the Madman cannot be without the Impossible Girl.

If she dies, he dies with her, and every city, every star, will follow in their wake.

They only save two others from the water. The crewmen, however, only have one extra blanket.

"Sir, we need to blanket off the girl. We have to keep these two men warm," the dark fellow tells him.

Despite his protestations, the sailors do as they deem fit, and Clara is left cold again.

But not exactly the kind of freezing the water induces. It's an empty kind of cold; the sort the body turns when its heart has stopped and mind has gone. He's seen this type before: when babies do not get enough to eat on the streets of Apalipayia, or old women turn to sleep at the Gunta ceremony of Litio, or the lost soldiers of the Time War...

It is the cold of the fallen.

So he holds her hand. That's the secret, isn't it? If the Doctor holds onto Clara Oswald's hand very, very tight and does not let go, then surely she will run with him again.

* * *

That's all, folks! Please review and I'll see you next time. :)


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